Jawaharlal Nehru An Autobiography

JAWAHARLAL

NEHRU

An Autobiography

JAWAHARLAL

NEHRU

An Autobiography

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU MEMORIAL FUND

New Delhi

OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

First published 1936

Reprinted with an additional chapter 1942 by
John Lane, The Bodley Head Ltd, London
This edition published by
Jawaharlal Nehru Memorial Fund, New Delhi
and distributed by
Oxford University Press
Reprinted 1982

Printed in India by M.L. Gupta
' at Indraprastha Press (CBT), Nehru House
Bahadur Shah Zafar Marg, New Delhi 110002
and published by Jawaharlal Nehru Memorial Fund
Teen Murti House, New Delhi 110011

To

KAMALA
who is no more

FOREWORD

My fathers three books — Glimpses of World History, An
Autobiograpy and The Discovery of India — have been my
companions through life. It is difficult to be detached about
them.

Indeed Glimpses was written for me. It remains the best
introduction to the story of man for young and growing people
in India and all over the world. The Autobiography has been
acclaimed as not merely the quest of one individual for free-
dom, but as an insight into the making of the mind of new
India. I had to correct the proofs of Discovery while my father
was away, I think in Calcutta, and I was in Allahabad ill with
mumps! The Discovery delves deep into the sources of India’s
national personality. Together, these books have moulded a
whole generation of Indians and inspired persons from many
other countries.

Books fascinated Jawaharlal Nehru. He sought out ideas.
He was extraordinarily sensitive to literary beauty. In his
writings he aimed at describing his motives and appraisals as
meticulously as possible. The purpose was not self-justification
or rationalization, but to show the rightness and inevitability
of the actions and events in which he was a prime participant.
He was a luminous man and his writings reflected the radiance
of his spirit.

The decision of the Jawaharlal Nehru Memorial Fund to
bring out a uniform edition of these three classics will be
widely welcomed.

Indira Gandhi

New Delhi
4 November

CONTENTS

Foreword vii

Preface to the 1962 Edition xiii

Preface to the First Edition zv

I Descent from Kashmir 1

II Childhood 6

III Theosophy 12

IV Harrow and Cambridge 17

V Back Home and War-time Politics in India 27

VI My Wedding and an Adventure in the 37

Himalayas

VII The Coming of Gandhiji: Satyagraha and 40

Amritsar

VIII I am Extemed and the Consequences thereof 48

IX Wanderings Among the Kisans 56

X Non-Co-operation 63

XI Nineteen Twenty-one and the First 75

Imprisonment

XII Non-Violence and the Doctrine of the 82

Sword

XIII Lucknow District Gaol 90

XIV Out Again 98

XV Doubt and Conflict 104

XVI An Interlude at Nabha 109

XVII Coconada and M. Mohamad Ali 117

XVIII My Father and Gandhiji 124

XIX Communalism Rampant ’ 134

XX Municipal Work 142

XXI In Europe 148

XXII Controversies in India 156

XXIII The Oppressed Meet at Brussels 161

XXIV Return to India and Plunge Back into 166

Politics

XXV Experience of Lathi Charges 177

X

JAWAHABLAL NEHRU

XXVI Trade Union Congress 182

XXVII Thunder in the Air 190

XXVIII Independence and After 201

XXIX Civil Disobedience Begins 209

XXX In Naini Prison 217

XXXI Negotiations at Yeravda 226

XXXII The No-Tax Campaign in the United 235

Provinces

XXXIII Death of My Father 245

XXXIV The Delhi Pact 249

XXXV Karachi Congress 260

XXXVI A Southern Holiday 271

XXXVII Friction During Truce Period 275

XXXVIII The Round Table Conference 286

XXXIX Agrarian Troubles in the United Provinces 297

XL The End of the Truce 313

XLI Arrests, Ordinances, Proscriptions 321

XLII Ballyhoo 325

XLIII In Bareilly and Dehra Dun Gaols 336

XLIV Prison Humours 346

XLV Animals in Prison 353

XLVI Struggle 360

XLVII What is Religion? 370

XL VIII The T)ual Policy’ of the British Government 381

XLIX The End of a Long Term 395

L A Visit to Gandhiji 399

LI The Liberal Outlook 409

LII Dominion Status and Independence 416

LIII India Old and New 426

LIV The Record of British Rule 433

LV A Civil Marriage and a Question of Script 450

LVI Communalism and Reaction 458

LVII Impasse 473

LVIII Earthquake 481

LIX Alipore Gaol 493

LX Democracy in East and West 498

LXI Desolation 504

LXII Paradoxes 515

CONTENTS

xi

LXIII

Conversion or Compulsion

537

lxiv

Dehra Gaol Again

553

LXV

Eleven Days

561

LXVI

Back to Prison

566

LXVII

Some Recent Happenings

573

LXVIII

Epilogue

595

Postscript

597

Five Years Later

599

Appendices

A Pledge taken on Independence Day,

612

26 January 1930

B Letter dated 15 August 1930, sent by

613

Congress leaders in Yeravda Prison
to Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and
Mr M.R. Jayakar, containing
suggestions for peace.

C Resolution of Remembrance, 615

26 January 1931

Index 617

PREFACE TO THE 1962 EDITION

I am glad that a cheap paperback edition of my autobiography
is being issued in India. This book was written by me more than
a quarter of a century ago. Much of it, therefore, perhaps deals
with matters which are no longer of topical interest. But it may
still be of general interest to many people in India because it
deals with a period of our national struggle in which many of
us were personally involved.

People are apt to forget the inner content of that struggle and
how it helped in changing the faoe of India, especially die rural
masses. It is out of that struggle that present day India has arisen.
The problems today are naturally different from those of a
generation ago. But there is a connecting link and, in order to
understand the India of today, we have to have some understand-
ing of what preceded it and what gave rise to it.

Many of us were moulded by that struggle and are what we
are today as a result of that struggle and the ideals and objectives
that governed us then. This is past history now, but sometimes it
is worthwhile knowing that past in order to know better the
present Essentially an autobiography is a personal document and
therefore it reflects personal views and reactions. But the person
who wrote it became merged, to a large extent, in the larger
movement and therefore represents, in a large measure, the
feelings of many others.

I trust that this book will revive something of the past in the
minds of many of those of the newer generation who did not
have personal experience of what it describes.

, Jawaharlal Nehru

New Delhi
20 February

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

This book was written entirely in prison, except for the post-
script and certain minor changes, from June 1934 to February
1935. The primary object in writing these pages was to occupy
myself with a definite task, so necessary in the long solitudes
of gaol life, as well as to review past events in India, with which
I had been connected, to enable myself to think clearly about
them. I began die task in a mood of self-questioning and, to a
large extent, this persisted throughout. I was not writing deli-
berately for an audience, but if I thought of an audience, it
was one of my own countrymen and countrywomen. For foreign
readers I would have probably written differently, or with a
different emphasis, stressing certain aspects which have been
slurred over in the narrative and passing over lightly certain
other aspects which I have treated at some length. Many of
these latter aspects may not interest the non-Indian reader, and
he may consider them unimportant or too obvious for discussion
or debate; but I felt that in the India of today they had a
certain importance. A number of references to our internal
politics and personalities may also be of little interest to the
outsider.

The reader will, I hope, remember that the book was written
during a particularly distressful period of my existence. It bears
obvious traces of this. If die writing had been done under more
normal conditions, it would have been different and perhaps
occasionally more restrained. Yet I have decided to leave it as
it is, for it may have some interest for others in so far as it
represents what I felt at the time of writing.

My attempt was to trace, as far as I could, my own mental
development, and not to write a survey of recent Indian his-
tory. The fact that this account resembles superficially such a
survey is apt to mislead the reader and lead him to attach a
wider importance to it than it deserves. I must warn him, there-
fore, that this account is wholly one-sided and, inevitably.

xvi

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

egotistical; many important happenings have been completely
ignored and many important persons, who shaped events, have
hardly been mentioned. In a real survey of past events this
would have been inexcusable, but a personal account can claim
this indulgence. Those who want to make a proper study of
our recent past will have to go to other sources. It may be,
however, that this and other personal narratives will help diem
to fill the gaps and to provide a background for the study of
hard fact.

I have discussed frankly some of my colleagues with whom
I have been privileged to work for many years and for whom
I have the greatest regard and affection; I have also criticized
groups and individuals, sometimes perhaps rather severely. The
criticism does not take away from my respect for many of them.
But I have felt that those who meddle in public affairs must
be frank with each other and with the public they claim to
serve. A superficial courtesy and an avoidance of embarrassing
and sometimes distressing questions do not help in bringing
about a true understanding of each other or of the problems
that face us. Real co-operation must be based on an apprecia-
tion of differences as well as common points, and a facing of
facts, however inconvenient they might be. I trust, however,
that nothing that I have written bears a trace of malice or
ill-will against any individual.

I have purposely avoided discussing the issues in India today,
except vaguely and indirectly. I was not in a position to go
into them with any thoroughness in prison, or even to decide
in my own mind what should be done. Even after my release

1 did not think it worthwhile to add anything on this subject.
It did not seem to fit in with what I had already written. And
so this ‘autobiographical narrative’ remains a sketchy, personal,
and incomplete account of the past, verging on die present,
but cautiously avoiding contact with it.

BademoeQer

2 January 1936

Jawaharlal Nehru

I

DESCENT FROM KASHMIR

“ It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself:
it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and
the reader's ears to hear anything of praise for him."

— Abraham Cowley.

An only son of prosperous parents is apt to be spoilt, especially
so in India. And when that son happens to have been an only
child for the first eleven years of his existence there is little hope
for him to escape this spoiling. My two sisters are very much
younger than I am, and between each two of us there is a long
stretch of years. And so I grew up and spent my early years as a
somewhat lonely child with no companions of my age. I did not
even have the companionship of children at school for I was not
sent to any kindergarten or primary school. Governesses or
private tutors were supposed to be in charge of my education.

Our house itself was far from being a lonely place, for it shel-
tered a large family of cousins and near relations, after the
manner of Hindu families. But all my cousins were much older
than I was and were students at the high school or the university
and considered me far too young for their work or their play.
And so in the midst of that big family I felt rather lonely and
was left a great deal to my own Fancies and solitary games.

We were Kashmiris. Over two hundred years ago, early in the
eighteenth century, our ancestor came down from that mountain
valley to seek fame and fortune in the rich plains below. Those
were the days of the decline of the Moghal Empire after the
death of Aurungzeb, and Farrukhsiar was the Emperor. Rai
Kaul was the name of that ancestor of ours and he had gained
eminence as a Sanskrit and Persian scholar in Kashmir. He
attracted the notice of Farrukhsiar during the latter’s visit to
Kashmir, and, probably at the Emperor’s instance, the family
migrated to Delhi, the imperial capital, about the year 1716. A
jagir with a house situated on the banks of a canal had been
granted to Raj Kaul, and, from the fact of this residence,
4 Nehru ’ (from nahar , a canal) came to be attached to his name.
Kaul had been the family name ; this changed to Kaul-Nehru ;
and, in later years, Kaul dropped out and we became simply
Nehrus.

1

2 , JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

The family experienced many vicissitudes of fortune during
the unsettled times that followed and the ;'agir dwindled and
vanished away. My great grandfather, Lakshmi Narayan Nehru,
became the first Vakil of the ' Sarkar Company ’ at the shadow
court of the Emperor of Delhi. My grandfather, Ganga Dhar
Nehru, was Kotwal of Delhi for some time before the great
Revolt of 1857. He died at the early age of 34 in 1861.

The Revolt of 1857 put an end to our family’s connection with
Delhi, and all our old family papers and documents were de-
stroyed in the course of it. The family, having lost nearly all it
possessed, joined the numerous fugitives who were leaving the old
imperial city and went to Agra. My father was not bom that
but my two uncles were already young men and possessed some
knowledge of English. This knowledge saved the younger of the
two uncles, as well as some other members of the family, from a
sudden and ignominious end. He was journeying from Delhi
with some family members, among whom was his young sister,
a little girl who was very fair, as some Kashmiri children are.
Some English soldiers met them on the way and they suspected
this little aunt of mine to be an English girl and accused my
uncle of kidnapping her. From an accusation, to summary justice
and punishment, was usually a matter of minutes in those days,
and my uncle and others of the family might well have found
themselves hanging on the nearest tree. Fortunately for them,
my uncle’s knowledge of English delayed matters a little and
then some one who knew him passed that way and rescued him
and the others.

For some years the family lived in Agra, and it was in Agra on
the sixth of May 1861 that my father was born. 1 But he was a
posthumous child js my grandfather had died three months
earlier. In a little painting that we have of my grandfather, he
wears the Moghal court dress with a curved sword in his hand,
and might well be taken for a Moghal nobleman, although his
features are distinctly Kashmiri.

The burden of the family then fell on my two uncles who were
very much older than my father. The elder uncle, Bansi Dhar
Nehru, soon after entered the judicial department of the British
Government and, being appointed successively to various places,
was partly cut off from the rest of the family. The younger
uncle, Nand Lai Nehru, entered the service of an Indian State
and was Diwan of Khetri State in Rajputana for ten years. Later
he studied law and settled down as a practising lawyer in Agra.

1 A curious and interesting coincidence; The poet Rabindranath
Tagore was also bom on this very day, month and year.

DESCENT FROM KASHMIR

3

My father lived with him and grew up under his sheltering care.
The two were greatly attached to each other and their rdation
with each other was a strange mixture of the brotherly and the
paternal and filial. My father, being the last comer, was of
course my grandmother’s favourite son, and she was an old lady
with a tremendous will of her own who was not accustomed to be
ignored. It is now nearly half a century since her death but she is
still remembered amongst old Kashmiri ladies as a most dominat-
ing old woman and quite a terror if her will was flouted.

My uncle attached himself to the newly established High
Court and when this court moved to Allahabad from Agra, the
family moved with it. Since then Allahabad has been our home
and it was there, many years later, that I was born. My uncle
gradually developed an extensive practice and became one of the
leaders of the High Court Bar. Meanwhile my father was going
through school and college in Cawnpore and Allahabad. His
early education was confined entirely to Persian and Arabic and
he only began learning English in his early ’teens. But at that
age he was considered to be a good Persian scholar, and knew
some Arabic also, and because of this knowledge was treated with
respect by much older people. But in spite of this early precocity
his school and college career was chiefly notable for his numerous
pranks and escapades. He was very far from being a model pupil
and took more interest in games and novel adventures than in
study. He was looked upon as one of the leaders of the rowdy
element in the college. He was attracted to Western dress and
other Western ways at a time when it was uncommon for Indians
to take to them except in big cities like Calcutta and Bombay.
Though he was a little wild in his behaviour, his Englishpro-
fessors were fond of him and often got him out of a scrape. Tney
liked his spirit and he was intelligent, and with an occasional
spurt he managed to do fairly well even in class. In later years,
long afterwards, he used to talk to us of one of these professors,
Mr. Harrison, the principal of the Muir Central College at
Allahabad, with affection, and had carefully preserved a letter of
his, dating from the old student days.

He got through his various university examinations without
any special distinction, and then he appeared for his final, the
B.A. He had not taken the trouble to work much for it and he
was greatly dissatisfied with the way he had done the first paper.
Not expecting to pass the examination, as he thought he nad
spoiled the first paper, he decided to boycott the rest of the ex-
amination and he spent his time instead at the Taj Mahal. (The
university examinations were held then at Agra.) Subsequently

4 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

his professor sent for him and was very angry with him for he
said that he (my father) had done the first paper fairly well and
he had been a fool for not appearing for the other papers. Any-
how this ended my father’s university career. He never Gradu-
ated.

He was keen on getting on in life and establishing himself in a
profession. Naturally he looked to the law as that was the only
profession then, in India, which offered any opening for talent and
prizes for the successful. He also had his brother’s example be-
fore him. He appeared for the High Court Vakils’ examination
and not only passed it but topped the list and got a gold medal
for it. He had found the subject after his own heart, or rather, he
was intent on success in the profession of his choice.

He started practice in the district courts of Cawnpore and,
being eager to succeed, worked hard at it and soon got on well.
But his love for games and other amusements and diversions con-
tinued and still took up part of his time. In particular, he was
keen on wrestling and dangals. Cawnpore was famous for these
public wrestling matches in those days.

After serving his apprenticeship for three years at Cawnpore,
father moved to Allahabad to work in the High Court. Not long
after this his brother, Pandit Nand Lai, suddenly died. That
was a terrible blow for my father ; it was a personal loss of a
dearly loved brother who had almost been a father to him, and
the removal of the head and principal earning member of the
family. Henceforward the burden of carrying on a large family
mainly fell on his young shoulders.

He plunged into his work, bent on success, and for many
months cut himself off from everything else. Nearly all of my
uncle’s briefs came to him, and as he happened to do well in them
the professional success that he so ardently desired soon came
his way and brought him both additional work and money. At
an early age he had established himself as a successful lawyer and
he paid the price for this by becoming more and more a slave
to his jealous mistress — the law. He had no time for any other
activity, public or private, and even his vacations and holidays
were devoted to his legal practice. The National Congress was
just then attracting the attention of the English-knowing middle
classes and he visited some of its early sessions and gave it a
theoretical allegiance. But in those days he took no great interest
in its work. He was too busy with his profession. Besides, he felt
unsure of his ground in politics and public affairs; he had paid
no great attention to these subjects till then and knew little about
them. He had no wish to join any movement or organization

DESCENT FROM KASHMIR

5

where he would have to play second fiddle. The aggressive spirit
of his childhood and early youth had been outwardly curbed,
but it had taken a new form, a new will to power. Directed to his
profession it brought success and increased his pride and self-
reliance. He loved a fight, a struggle against odds and yet,
curiously, in those days he avoided the political field. It is true
that there was little of fight then in the politics of the National
Congress. However, the ground was unfamiliar, and his mind
was full of the hard work that his profession involved. He had
taken firm grip of the ladder of success and rung by rung he
mounted higher, not by any one’s favour, as he felt, not by any
service of another, but by his own will and intellect.

He was, of course, a nationalist in a vague sense of the word,
but he admired Englishmen and their ways. He had a feeling
that his own countrymen had fallen low and almost deserved
what they had got. And there was just a trace of contempt in his
mind for the politicians who talked and talked without doing
anything, though he had no idea at all as to what else they could
do. Also there was the thought, born in the pride of his own
success, that many— certainly not all — of those who took to
politics had been failures in life.

An ever-increasing income brought many changes in our ways
of living, for an increasing income meant increasing expenditure.
The idea of hoarding money seemed to my father a slight on his
own capacity to earn whenever he liked and as much as he de-
sired. Full of the spirit of play and fond of good living in every
way, he found no difficulty in spending what he earned. And
gradually our ways became more and more Westernized.

Such was our home in the early days of my childhood . 1

II

CHILDHOOD

My childhood was thus a sheltered and uneventful one. I
listened to the grown-up talk of my cousins without always un-
derstanding all of it. Often this talk related to the overbearing
character and insulting manners of the English people, as well as
Eurasians, towards Indians, and how it was the duty of every
Indian to stand up to this and not to tolerate it. Instances of con-
flicts between the rulers and the ruled were common and were
fully discussed. It was a notorious fact that whenever an English-
man killed an Indian he was acquitted by a jury of his own
countrymen. In railway trains compartments were reserved for
Europeans and however crowded the train might be— and they
used to be terribly crowded — no Indian was allowed to travel in
them, even though they were empty. Even an unreserved com-
partment would De taken possession of by an Englishman and he
would not allow any Indian to enter it. Benches and chairs were
also reserved for Europeans in public parks and other places. I
was filled with resentment against the alien rulers of my country
who misbehaved in this manner, and whenever an Indian hit back
I was glad. Not infrequently one of my cousins or one of their
friends became personally involved in these individual encounters
and then of course we all got very excited over it. One of the
cousins was the strong man of the family and he loved to pick a
quarrel with an Englishman, or more frequently with Eurasians,
who, perhaps to show off their oneness with the ruling race, were
often even more offensive than the English official or merchant.
Such quarrels took place especially during railway journeys.

Much as I began to resent the presence and behaviour of the
alien rulers, I had no feeling whatever, so far as I can remember,
against individual Englishmen. I had had English governesses
and occasionally I saw English friends of my father’s visiting
him. In my heart I rather admired the English.

In the evenings usually many friends came to visit father and
he would relax after the tension of the day and the house would
resound with his tremendous laughter. His laugh became famous
in Allahabad. Sometimes I would peep at him and his friends
from behind a curtain trying to make out what these great big
people said to each other. If I was caught in the act I would be
dragged out and, rather frightened, made to sit for a while on

CHILDHOOD

7

father's knee. Once I saw him drinking claret or some other red
wine. Whisky I knew. I had often seen nim and his friends drink
it. But the new red stuff filled me with horror and I rushed to
my mother to tell her that father was drinking blood.

I admired father tremendously. He seemed to me the embodi-
ment of strength and courage and cleverness, far above all the
other men I saw, and I treasured the hope that when I grew up
I would be rather like him. But much as I admired him and
loved him I feared him also. I had seen him losing his temper at
servants and others and he seemed to me terrible then and I
shivered with fright, mixed sometimes with resentment, at the
treatment of a servant. His temper was indeed an awful thing
and even in after years I do not think I ever came across anything
to match it in its own line. But, fortunately, he had a strong
sense of humour also and an iron will, and he could control
himself as a rule. As he grew older this power of control grew
and it was very rare for him to indulge in anything like his old
temper.

One of my earliest recollections is of this temper, for I was the
victim of it. I must have been about five or six then. I noticed
one day two fountain-pens on his office table and I looked at them
with greed. I argued with myself that father could not require
both at the same time and so I helped myself to one of them.
Later I found that a mighty search was being made for the lost
pen and I grew frightened at what I had done, but I did not
confess. The pen was discovered and my guilt proclaimed to the
world. Father was very angry and he gave me a tremendous
thrashing. Almost blind with pain and mortification at my
disgrace I rushed to mother, and for several days various creams
and ointments were applied to my aching and quivering little
body.

I do not remember bearing any ill-will towards my father be-
cause of this punishment. I think I must have felt that it was a
just punishment, though perhaps overdone. But though my
admiration and affection for him remained as strong as ever, fear
formed a part of them. Not so with my mother. I had no fear of
her, for I knew that she would condone everything I did, and,
because of her excessive and indiscriminating love for me, I tried
to dominate over her a little. I saw much more of her than I
did of father and she seemed nearer to me and I would confide
in her when I would not dream of doing so to father. She was
petite and short of stature and soon I was almost as tall as she
was and felt more of an equal with her. I admired her beauty
and loved her amazingly small and beautiful hands and feet.

8 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

She belonged to a fresher stock from Kashmir and her people
had only left the homeland two generations back.

Another of my early confidants was a munshi of my father’s,
Munshi Mubarak All. He came from a well-to-do family of
Badaun. The Revolt of 1857 had ruined the family and the
English troops had partly exterminated it. This affliction had
made him gentle and forbearing with everybody, especially with
children, and for me he was a sure haven of refuge whenever I
was unhappy or in trouble. With his fine grey beard he seemed
to my young eyes very ancient and full of old-time lore, and I
used to snuggle up to him and listen, wide-eyed, by the hour to
his innumerable stories — old tales from the Arabian Nights or
other sources, or accounts of the happenings in 1857 and 1858.
It was many years later, when I was grown up, that “ Munshiji ”
died, and the memory of him still remains with me as a dear
and precious possession.

There were other stories also that I listened to, stories from the
old Hindu mythology, from the epics, the Ramayana and the
Mahabharata, that my mother and aunt used to tell us. My
aunt, the widow of Pandit Nand Lai, was learned in the old
Indian books and had an inexhaustible supply of these tales, and
my knowledge of Indian mythology and folklore became quite
considerable.

Of religion I had very hazy notions. It seemed to be a woman’s
affair. Father and my older cousins treated the question humor-
ously and refused to take it seriously. The women of the family
indulged in various ceremonies and pujas from time to time and
I rather enjoyed them, though I tried to imitate to some extent
the casual attitude of the grown-up men of the family. Some-
times I accompanied my mother or aunt to the Ganges for a dip,
sometimes we visited temples in Allahabad itself or in Benares
or elsewhere, or went to see a sanyasi reputed to be very holy.
But all this left litde impression on my mind.

Then there were the great festival days — the Holi, when all
over the city there was a spirit of revelry and we could squirt
water at each other; the Divali, the festival of light, when all the
houses were lit up with thousands of dim lights in earthen
cups; the Janmashtami to celebrate the birth in prison of
Krishna at the midnight hour (but it was very difficult for us to
keep awake till then); the Dasehra and Ram Lila when tableaux
and processions re-enacted the old story of Ramachandra and his
conquest of Lanka and vast crowds assembled to see them. All
the children also went to see the Mohurrum processions with
their silken alums and their sorrowful celebration of the tragic

CHILDHOOD

9

story of Hasan and Husain in distant Arabia. And on the two Id
days Munshiji would dress up in his best attire and go to the big
mosque for prayers, and I would go to his house and consume
sweet vermicelli and other dainties. And then there were the
smaller festivals of which there are many in the Hindu calendar,
Rakshabandhan, Bhayya duj , etc.

Amongst us and the other Kashmiris there were also some
special celebrations which were not observed by most of the
other Hindus. Chief of these was the Naoroz , the New Year's
Day according to the Sam vat calendar. This was always a special
day for us when all of us wore new clothes, and the young people
of the house got small sums of money as tips.

But more than all these festivals I was interested in one annual
event in which I played the central part — the celebration of the
anniversary of my birth. This was a day of great excitement for
me. Early in the morning I was weighed in a huge balance
against some bagfuls of wheat and other articles which were then
distributed to the poor ; and then I arrayed myself in new clothes
and received presents, and later in the day there was a party. I
felt the hero of the occasion. My chief grievance was that my
birthday came so rarely. Indeed I tried to start an agitation for
more frequent birthdays. I did not realize then that a time would
come when birthdays would become unpleasant reminders of
advancing age.

Sometimes the whole family journeyed to a distant town to
attend a marriage, either of a cousin of mine or of some more
distant relation or friend. Those were exciting journeys for us,
children, for all rules were relaxed during these marriage festivi-
ties and we had the free run of the place. Numerous families
usually lived crowded together in the shadi-khana , the marriage
house, where the party stayed, and there were many boys and
girls and children. On these occasions I could not complain of
loneliness and we had our heart's fill of play and mischief, with
an occasional scolding from our elders.

Indian marriages, both among the rich and the poor, have had
their full share of condemnation as wasteful and extravagant
display. They deserve all this. Even apart from the waste, it is
most painful to see the vulgar display which has no artistic or
aesthetic value of any kind. (Needless to say there are excep-
tions.) For all this the really guilty people are the middle classes.
The poor are also extravagant, even at the cost of burdensome
debts, but it is the height of absurdity to say, as some people do,
that their poverty is due to their social customs. It is often for-
gotten that the life of the poor is terribly dull and monotonous,

IO JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and an occasional marriage celebration, bringing with it some
feasting and singing, comes to them as an oasis in a desert of
soulless toil, a refuge from domesticity and the prosaic business
of life. Who would be cruel enough to deny this consolation to
them, who have such few occasions for laugnter? Stop waste by
all means, lessen the extravagance (big and foolish words to use
for the little show that the poor put up in their poverty!), but
do not make their life more drab and cheerless than it is.

So also for the middle classes. Waste and extravagance apart
these marriages are big social reunions where distant relations
and old friends meet after long intervals. India is a big country
and it is not easy for friends to meet, and for many to meet
together at the same time is still more difficult. Hence the popu-
larity of the marriage celebrations. The only rival to them, and
it has already excelled them in many ways even as a social
reunion, is the political gathering, the various conferences, or
the Congress!

Kashmiris have had one advantage over many others in India,
especially in the north. They have never had any purdah, or
seclusion of women, among themselves. Finding this custom
prevailing in the Indian plains, when they came down, they
adopted it, but rally partly and in so far as their relations with
others and non-Kashmiris were concerned. That was considered
then in northern India, where most of the Kashmiris stayed, an
inevitable sign of social status. But among themselves they stuck
to the free social life of men and women, and every Kashmiri
had the free entrie into any Kashmiri house. In Kashmiri feasts
and ceremonies men and women met together and sat together,
though often the women would sit in one bunch. Boys and
girls used to meet on a more or less equal footing. They did not,
of course, have the freedom of the modern West.

So passed my early years. Sometimes, as was inevitable in a
large family, there were family squabbles. When these happened
to assume unusual proportions they reached my father’s ears and
he was angry and seemed to think that all such happenings were
due to the folly of women. I did not understand what exactly
had happened but I saw that something was very wrong as
people seemed to speak in a peculiarly disagreeable way or to
avoid each other. I felt very unhappy. Father’s intervention,
when it took place, shook us all up.

One little incident of those early days stands out in my
memory. I must have been about seven or eight then. I used to
go out every day for a ride accompanied by a sowar from a
cavalry unit then stationed in Allahabad. One evening I had a

CHILDHOOD

II

fall and my pony— a pretty animal, partly Arab— returned home
without me. Father was giving a tennis party. There was great
consternation and all the members of the party, headed by
father, formed a procession in all kinds of vehicles, and set out
in search of me. They met me on the way and I was treated as
if I had performed some heroic deed I

III

THEOSOPHY

When I was ten years old we changed over to a new and much
bigger house which my father named 4 Anand Bhawan \ This
house had a big garden and a swimming pool and I was full of
excitement at the fresh discoveries I was continually making.
Additional buildings were put up and there was a great deal of
digging and construction and I loved to watch the labourers at
work.

There was a large swimming pool in the house and soon I
learnt to swim and felt completely at home in and under the
water. During the long and hot summer days I would go for a
dip at all odd hours, many times a day. In the evening many
friends of my father’s came to the pool. It was a novelty, and the
electric light that had been installed there and in the house was an
innovation for Allahabad in those days. I enjoyed myself hugely
during these bathing parties and an unfailing joy was to frighten,
by pushing or pulling, those who did not know how to swim.
I remember, particularly, Dr. Tej Bahadur Sapru who was then
a junior at the Allahabad Bar. He knew no swimming and had
no intention of learning it. He would sit on the first step in
fifteen inches of water, refusing absolutely to go forward even to
the second step, and shouting loudly if anyone tried to move him.
My father himself was no swimmer, but he could just manage
to go the length of the pool with set teeth and violent and
exhausting effort.

The Boer War was then going on and this interested me and
all my sympathies were with the Boers. I began to read the
newspapers to get news of the fighting.

A domestic event, however, just then absorbed my attention.
This was the birth of a little sister. I had long nourished a secret
grievance at not having any brothers or sisters when everybody
else seemed to have them, and the prospect of having at last a
baby brother or sister all to myself was exhilarating. Father was
then in Europe. I remember waiting anxiously in the verandah
for the event. One of the doctors came and told me of it and
added, presumably as a joke, that I must be glad that it was not
a boy who would have taken a share in my patrimony. I felt
bitter and angry at the thought that any one should imagine
that I could hatbour such a vile notion.

is

THEOSOPHY

*3

Father’s visits to Europe led to an internal storm in the Kash-
miri Brahman community in India. He refused to perform any
prayashchit or purification ceremony on his return. Some years

E reviously another Kashmiri Brahman, Pandit Bishan Narayan
>ar, who later became a President of the Congress; had gone
to England to be called to the Bar. On his return the orthodox
members of the community had refused to have anything to
do with him and he was outcast, although he performed the
prayashchit ceremony. This had resulted in the splitting up of
the community into two more or less equal halves. Many Kash-
miri young men went subsequently to Europe for their studies
and on their return joined the reformist section, but only after
a formal ceremony of purification. This ceremony itself was a
bit of a farce and there was little of religion in it. It merely
signified an outward conformity and a submission to the group
will. Having done so, each person indulged in all manner of
heterodox activities and mixed and fed with non-Brahmans and
non-Hindus.

Father went a step further and refused to go through any
ceremony or to submit in any way, even outwardly and formally,
to a so-called purification. A great deal of heat was generated,
chiefly because of father’s aggressive and rather disdainful atti-
tude, and ultimately a considerable number of Kashmiris joined
father and so a third group was formed. Within a few years
these groups gradually merged into one another as ideas changed
and the old restrictions fell. Large numbers of Kashmiri young
men and girls have visited Europe or America for their studies
and no question has arisen of their performing any ceremonies
on their return. Food restrictions have almost entirely gone,
except in the case of a handful of orthodox people, chiefly old
ladies, and inter-dining with non-Kashmiris, Muslims and non-
Indians is common. Purdah, the seclusion of women, has dis-
appeared among Kashmiris even as regards other communities.
The last push to this was given by the political upheaval of 1930.
Inter-marriage with other communities is still not popular,
although (increasingly) instances occur. Both my sisters have
married non-Kashmiris and a young member of our family has
recently married a Hungarian girl. The objection to inter-
marriage with others is not based on religion; it is largely racial.
There is a desire among many Kashmiris to preserve our group
identity and our distinctive Aryan features, and a fear that we
shall lose these in the sea of Indian and non-Indian humanity.
We are small in numbers in this vast country.

Probably the first Kashmiri Brahman in modem times to visit

14 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Western countries was Mirza Mohan Lai ‘ Kashmerian ’ (as he
called himself) about a hundred years ago. He was a bright and
handsome young man, a student of the Mission College at Delhi,
and he was chosen to accompany a British mission to Kabul as
Persian interpreter. Later he travelled all over Central Asia and
Persia and wherever he went he managed to take a new wife
unto himself, usually marrying in the highest circles. He became
a Muslim and in Persia married a girl of the royal family, hence
his title of Mirza. He visited Europe also and was presented to
the young Queen Victoria. He has written delightful memoirs
and accounts of his* travels.

When I was about eleven a new resident tutor, Ferdinand T.
Brooks, came and took charge of me. He was partly Irish (on his
father ’8 side) and his mother had been a Frenchwoman or a
Belgian. He was a keen theosophist who had been recommended
to my father by Mrs. Annie Besant. For nearly three years he
was with me and in many ways he influenced me greatly. The
only other tutor I had at the time was a dear old Pandit who was
supposed to teach me Hindi and Sanskrit. After many years*
enort the Pandit managed to teach me extraordinarily little, so
little that I can only measure my pitiful knowledge of Sanskrit
with the Latin I learnt subsequently at Harrow. The fault no
doubt was mine. I am not good at languages, and grammar has
had no attraction for me whatever.

F. T. Brooks developed in me a taste for reading and I read a
great many English books, though rather aimlessly. I was well
up in children’s and boys’ literature; the Lewis Carroll books
were great favourites, and The Jungle Books and Kim. I was
fascinated by Gustave Dore’s illustrations to Don Quixote, and
Fridtjof Nansen’s Farthest North opened out a new realm of
adventure to me. I remember reading many of the novels of
Scott, Dickens and Thackeray, H. G. Wells’s romances, Mark
Twain, and the Sherlock Holmes stories. I was thrilled by the
Prisoner of Zenda, and Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat
was for me the last word in humour. Another book stands out
still in my memory; it was Du Maurier’s Trilby, also Peter
Ibbetson. I also developed a liking for poetry, a liking which has
to some extent endured and survived the many other changes
to which I have been subject.

Brooks also initiated me into the mysteries of science. We
rigged up a little laboratory and there I used to spend long and
interesting hours working out experiments in elementary physics
and chemistry.

Apart from my studies, F. T. Brooks brought a new influence

THEOSOPHY

«5

to bear upon me which affected me powerfully for a while. This
was Theosophy. He used to have weekly meetings of theoso-
phists in his rooms and I attended them and gradually imbibed
theosophical phraseology and ideas. There were metaphysical
arguments, and discussions about reincarnation and the astral
and other super-natural bodies, and auras, and the doctrine of
Karma, and references not only to big books by Madame
Blavatsky and other Theosophists but to the Hindu scriptures,
the Buddhist “ Dhammapada”, Pythagoras, Apollonius of
Tyana, and various philosophers and mystics. I did not under-
stand much that was said but it all sounded very mysterious and
fascinating and I felt that here was the key to the secrets of the
universe. For the first time I began to think, consciously and
deliberately, of religion and other worlds. The Hindu religion
especially went up in my estimation; not the ritual or ceremonial
part, but its great books, the “ Upanishads " and the “ Bhagavad
Gita", I did not understand them, of course, but they seemed very
wonderful. I dreamt of astral bodies and imagined myself flying
vast distances. This dream of flying high up in the air (without
any appliance) has indeed been a frequent one throughout my
life; and sometimes it has been vivid and realistic and the country-
side seemed to lie underneath me in a vast panorama. I do not
know how the modern interpreters of dreams, Freud and others,
would interpret this dream.

Mrs. Annie Besant visited Allahabad in those days and
delivered several addresses on theosophical subjects. I was deeply
moved by her oratory and returned from her speeches dazed
and as in a dream. I decided to join the Theosophical Society,
although I was only thirteen then. When I watt to ask father’s
permission he laughingly gave it; he did not seem to attach
importance to the subject either way. I was a little hurt by his
lack of feeling. Great as he was in many ways in my eyes, I felt
that he was lacking in spirituality. As a matter of fact he was
an old theosophist, having joined the Society in its early days
when Madame Blavatsky was in India. Curiosity probably led
him to it more than religion, and he soon dropped out of it, but
some of his friends, who had joined with him, persevered and
rose high in the spiritual hierarchy of the Society.

So I became a member of the Theosophical Society at thirteen
and Mrs. Besant herself performed the ceremony of initiation,
which consisted of good advice and instruction in some mys-
terious signs, probably a relic of freemasonry. I was thrilled. I
attended the Theosophical Convention at Benares and saw old
Colonel Olcott with his fine beard.

l6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

It is difficult to realise what one looked like or felt like in one’s
boyhood, thirty years ago. But I have a fairly strong impression
that during these theosophical days of mine I developed the
flat and insipid look which sometimes denotes piety and which
is (or was) often to be seen among theosophist men and women.
I was smug, with a feeling of being one-of-the-elect, and alto-
gether I must have been a thoroughly undesirable and unpleasant
companion for any boy or girl of my age.

Soon after F. T. Brooks left me I lost touch with Theosophy,
and in a remarkably short time (partly because I went to school
in England) Theosophy left my life completely. But I have no
doubt that those years with F. T. Brooks left a deep impress upon
me and I feel that I owe a debt to him and to Theosophy. But
I am afraid that theosophists have since then gone down in my
estimation. Instead of the chosen ones they seem to be very
ordinary folk, liking security better than risk, a soft job more
than the martyr’s lot. But, for Mrs. Besant, I always had the
warmest admiration.

The next important event that I remember affecting me was
the Russo-Japanese War. Japanese victories stirred up my
enthusiasm and I waited eagerly for the papers for fresh news
daily. I invested in a large number of books on Japan and tried
to read some of them. I felt rather lost in Japanese history, but
I liked the knightly tales of old Japan and the pleasant prose of
Lafcadio Hearn.

Nationalistic ideas filled my mind. I mused of Indian freedom
and Asiatic freedom from the thraldom of Europe. I dreamt of
brave deeds, of how, sword in hand, I would fight for India and
help in freeing her.

I was fourteen. Changes were taking place in our house. My
older cousins, having become professional men, were leaving the
common home and setting up their own households separately.
Fresh thoughts and vague fancies were floating in my mind and
I began to take a little more interest in the opposite sex. I still
preferred the company of boys and thought it a little beneath
my dignity to mix with groups of girls. But sometimes at
Kashmiri parties, where pretty girls were not lacking, or else-
where, a glance or a touch would thrill me.

^In May 1905, when I was fifteen, we set sail for England.
Father and mother, my baby sister and I, we all went together.

IV

HARROW AND CAMBRIDGE

On a May day, towards the end of the month, we reached
London, reading in the train from Dover of the great Japanese
sea victory at Tsushima. I was in high good humour. The very
next day happened to be Derby day and we went to see the race.
I remember meeting, soon after our arrival in London, M. A.
Ansari, who was then a smart and clever young man with a
record of brilliant academical achievement behind him. He was
a house surgeon at the time in a London hospital.

I was a little fortunate in finding a vacancy at Harrow for I
was slightly above the usual age lor entry, being fifteen. My
family went to the Continent and after some months they
returned to India.

Never before had I been left among strangers all by myself
and I felt lonely and homesick, but not for long. I managed to
fit in to some extent in the life at school and work and play kept
me busy. I was never an exact fit. Always I had a feeling that I
was not one of them, and the others must have felt the same
way about me. I was left a little to myself. But on the whole I
took my full share in the games, without in any way shining at
them, and it was, I believe, recognised that I was no shirker.

I was put, to begin with, in a low form because of my small
knowledge of Latin, but I was pushed higher up soon. In many
subjects probably, and especially in general knowledge, I was in
advance of those of my age. My interests were certainly wider,
and I read both books ard newspapers more than most of my
fellow-students. I remember writing to my father how dull most
of the English boys were as they could talk about nothing but
their games. But there were exceptions, especially when I reached
the upper forms.

I was greatly interested in the General Ejection, which took
place, as far as I remember, at the end of 1905 and which ended
in a great Liberal victory. Early in 1906 our form master asked
us about the new Government and, much to his surprise, I was
the only boy in his form who could give him much information
on the subject, including almost a complete list of members of
Campbell-Bannerman’s Cabinet.

Apart from politics another subject that fascinated me was the
early growth of aviation. Those were the days of the Wright
b ‘7

l8 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Brothers and Santos Dumont (to be followed soon by Farman,
Latham and Bldriot), and I wrote to father from Harrow, in my
enthusiasm, that soon I might be able to pay him a week-end
visit in India by air.

There were four or five Indian boys at Harrow in my time. I
seldom came across those at other houses, but in our own house —
the Headmaster’s— we had one of the sons of the Gaekwar of
Baroda. He was much senior to me and was popular because of
his cricket. He left soon after my arrival. Later came the eldest
son of the Maharaja of Kapurthala, Paramjit Singh, now the
Tikka Sahab. He was a complete misfit and was unhappy and
could not mix at all with the other boys, who often made fun of
him and his ways. This irritated him greatly and sometimes he
used to tell them what he would do to them if they came to
Kapurthala. Needless to say, this did not improve matters for
him. He had previously spent some time in France and could
speak French fluently but, oddly enough, such were the methods
of teaching foreign languages in English public schools, that this
hardly helped him in the French classes.

A curious incident took place once when, in the middle of the
night, the house-master suddenly visited our rooms and made a
thorough search *11 over the house. We learnt that Paramjit
Singh had lost his beautiful gold-mounted cane. The search was
not successful. Two or three days later the Eton and Harrow
match took place at Lord’s, and immediately afterwards the cane
was discovered in the owner’s room. Evidently some one had
used it at Lord’s and then returned it.

There wore a few Jews in our house and in other houses. They

§ ot on fairly well but there was always a background of anti-
emitic feeling. They were the ‘ damned Jews ’, and soon, almost
unconsciously, I began to think that it was the proper thing to
have this feeling. I never really felt anti-Semitic in the least, and,
in later years, I had many good friends among the Jews.

I got used to Harrow and liked the place, and yet somehow I
began to feel that I was outgrowing it. The university attracted
me. Right through the years 1906 and 1907 news from India
had been agitating me. I got meagre enough accounts from the
English papers; but even that little showed that big events were
happening at home, in Bengal, Punjab and the Maharashtra.
There was Lais Lajpat Rai’s and S. Ajit Singh’s deportation, and
Bengal seemed to be in an uproar, and Tilak’s name was often
flashed from Poona, and there was Swadeshi and boycott. All
this stirred me tremendously ; but there was not a soul m Harrow
to whom I could talk about it. During the holidays I met some of

HARROW AND CAMBRIDGE 19

my cousins or other Indian friends and then had a chance of
relieving ray mind.

A prize I got f or good work at school was one of G. M.
Trevelyan’s Garibaldi books. This fascinated me and soon I
obtained the other two volumes of the series and studied the
whole Garibaldi story in them carefully. Visions of similar deeds
in India came before me, of a gallant fight for freedom, and in
my mind India and Italy got strangely mixed together. Harrow
seemed a rather small and restricted place for these ideas and I
wanted to go to the wider sphere of the university. So I induced
father to agree to this and left Harrow after only two years’ stay,
which was much less than the usual period.

I was leaving Harrow because I wanted to do so myself and
yet, I well remember, that when the time came to part I felt
unhappy and tears came to my eyes. I had grown rather fond of
the place and my departure for good put an end to one period
in my life. And yet, I wonder, how far I was really sorry at
leaving Harrow. Was it not partly a feeling that I ought to be
unhappy because Harrow tradition and song demanded it? I was
susceptible to these traditions for I had deliberately not resisted
them so as to be in harmony with the place.

Cambridge, Trinity College, the beginning of October 1907,
my age seventeen, or rather approaching eighteen. I felt elated
at being an undergraduate with a great deal of freedom, com-
pared to school, to do what I chose. I had got out of the shackles
of boyhood and felt at last that I could claim to be a grown-up.
With a self-conscious air I wandered about the big courts and
narrow streets of Cambridge, delighted to meet a person I knew.

Three years I was at Cambridge, three tjuiet years with little
of disturbance in them, moving slowly on like the sluggish Cam.
They were pleasant years, with many friends and some work and
some play and a gradual widening of the intellectual horizon.
I took the Natural Sciences Tripos, my subjects being chemistry,
geology and botany, but my interests were not confined to these.
Many of the people I met at Cambridge or during the vacations
in London or elsewhere talked learnedly about books and litera-
ture and history and politics and economics* I felt a little at sea
at first in this semi-highbrow talk, but I read a few books and
soon got the hang of it and could at least keep my end up and
not betray too great an ignorance on any of the usual subjects.
So we discussed Nietzsche (he was all the rage in Cambridge
then) and Bernard Shaw’s prefaces and the latest book by Lowes
Dickinson. We considered ourselves very sophisticated and
talked of sex and morality in a superior way, referring casually

30 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

to Ivan Block, Havelock Ellis, Kraft Ebbing or Otto Weininger.
We felt that we knew about as much of the theory of the subject
as anyone who was not a specialist need know.

As a matter of fact, in spite of our brave talk, most of us were
rather timid where sex was concerned. At any rate I was so,
and my knowledge for many years, till after I had left Cam-
bridge, remained confined to theory. Why this was so it is a little
difficult to say. Most of us were strongly attracted by sex and I
doubt if any of us attached any idea of sin to it. Certainly I
did not; there was no religious inhibition. We talked of its
being amoral, neither moral nor immoral. Yet in spite of all
this a certain shyness kept me away, as well as a distaste for the
usual methods adopted. For I was in those days definitely a
shy lad, perhaps because of my lonely childhood.

My general attitude to life at the time was a vague kind of
cyrenaicism, partly natural to youth, partly the influence of
Oscar Wilde and Walter Pater. It is easy and gratifying to give
a long Greek name to the desire for a soft life and pleasant ex-
periences. But there was something more in it than that for I was
not particularly attracted to a soft life. Not having the religious
temper and disliking the repressions of religion, it was natural
for me to seek some other standard. I was superficial and did
not go deep down into anything. And so the aesthetic side of
life appealed to me, and the idea of going through life worthily,
not indulging it in the vulgar way, but still making the most of
it and living a full and many-sided life attracted me. I enjoyed
life and I refused to see why I should consider it a thing of sin.
At the same time risk and adventure fascinated me; I was always,
like my father, a bit of a gambler, at first with money and then
for higher stakes, with the bigger issues of life. Indian politics
in 1907 and 1908 were in a state of upheaval and I wanted to
play a brave part in them, and this was not likely to lead to a
soft life. All these mixed and sometimes conflicting desires led
to a medley in my mind. Vague and confused it was but I did
not worry, for the time for any decision was yet far distant.
Meanwhile, life was pleasant, both physically and intellectually,
fresh horizons were ever coming into sight, there was so much
to be done, so much to be seen, so many fresh avenues to explore.
And we would sit by the fireside in the long winter evenings and
talk and discuss unhurriedly deep into the night till the dying
fire drov$ us shivering to our beds. And sometimes, during our
discussions, our voices would lose their even tenor and would
grow loud and excited in heated argument. But it was all make-
believe. We played with the problems of human life in a mock-

HARROW AND CAMBRIDGE

>1

serious way, for they had not become real problems for us yet,
and we had not been caught in the coils of the world’s affairs.
It was the pre-war world of the early twentieth century. Soon
this world was to die, yielding place to another, foil of death and
destruction and anguish and heart-sickness for the world’s youth.
But the veil of the future hid this and we saw around us an
assured and advancing order of things and this was pleasant for
those who could afford it.

I write of cyrenaicism and the like and of various ideas that
influenced me then. But it would be wrong to imagine that I
thought clearly on these subjects then or even that I thought it
necessary to try to be clear and definite about them. They were
just vague fancies that floated in my mind and in this process
left their impress in a greater or less degree. I did not worry
myself at all about these speculations. Work and games and
amusements filled my life and the only thing that disturbed me
sometimes was the political struggle in India. Among the books
that influenced me politically at Cambridge was Meredith
Townsend’s Asia and Europe.

From 1907 onwards for several years India was seething with
unrest and trouble. For the first time since the Revolt of 1857
India was showing fight and not submitting tamely to foreign
rule. News of Tilak’s activities and his conviction, of Aravindo
Ghose and the way the masses of Bengal were taking the
swadeshi and boycott pledge stirred all of us Indians in England.
Almost without an exception we were Tilakites or Extremists, as
the new party was called in India.

The Indians in Cambridge had a society called the ' Majlis ’.
We discussed political problems there often but in somewhat
unreal debates. More effort was spent in copying Parliamentary
and the University Union style and mannerisms than in grap-
pling with the subject. Frequently I went to the Majlis but
during my three years I hardly spoke there. I could not get over
my shyness and diffidence. This same difficulty pursued me in
my college debating society, “ The Magpie and Stump ”, where
there was a rule that a member not speaking for a whole term
had to pay a fine. Often I paid the fine.

I remember Edwin Montagu, who later became Secretary of
State for India, often visiting " The Magpie and Stump.” He
was an old Trinity man ana was then Member of Parliament
for Cambridge. It was from him that I first heard the modem
definition of faith : to believe in something which your reason
tells you cannot be true, for if your reason approvea of it there
could be no question of blind faith. I was influenced by my

22 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

scientific studies in the university and had some of the assurance
which science then possessed. For the science of the nineteenth
and the early twentieth centuries, unlike that of to-day, was very
sure of itself and the world.

In the Majlis and in private talks Indian students often used
the most extreme language when discussing Indian politics. They
even talked in terms of admiration of the acts of violence that
were then beginning in Bengal. Later I was to find that these
very persons were to become members of the Indian Civil Service,
High Court judges, very staid and sober lawyers, and the like.
Few of these parlour-firebrands took any effective pan in Indian
political movements subsequently.

Some of the noted Indian politicians of the day visited us at
Cambridge. We respected them but there was also a trace of
superiority in our attitude. We felt that ours was a wider culture
and we could take a broader view of things. Among those who
came to us were Bepin Chandra Pal, Lajpat Rai and G. K.
Gokhale. We met Bepin Pal in one of our sitting-rooms. There
were only a dozen of us present but he thundered at us as if he
was addressing a mass meeting of ten thousand. The volume of
noise was so terrific that I could hardly follow what he was
saying. Lalaji spoke to us in a more reasonable way and I was
impressed by his talk. I wrote to father that I preferred Lalaji’s
address to Bepin Pal’s and this pleased him for he had no liking
in those days for the firebrands of Bengal. Gokhale addressed
a public meeting in Cambridge and my chief recollection of this
meeting is of a question that was put by A. M. Khwaja at the
end of it. Khwaja got up from the body of the hall and put
an interminable question, which went on and on, till most of us
had forgotten how it began and what it was about.

Har Dayal had a great reputation among the Indians but he
was at Oxford a little before my time at Cambridge. I met him
once or twice in London during my Harrow days.

Among my contemporaries at Cambridge there were several
who played a prominent part in Indian Congress politics in later
years. J. M. Sen Gupta left Cambridge soon after I went up. Saif-
ud-Din Kitchlew, Syed Mahmud and Tasadduk Ahmad Sher-
wani were more or less my contemporaries. S. M. Sulaiman,
who is now the Chief Justice of the Allahabad High Court, was
also at Cambridge in my time. Other contemporaries have
blossomed out as ministers and members of the Indian Civil
Service.

In London we used to hear also of Shyamji Krishnavarma and
his India House but I never met him or visited that house. Some-

HARROW AND CAMBRIDGE

*3

times we saw his Indian Sociologist . Long afterwards, in 1926,
I saw Shyamji in Geneva. His pockets still bulged with ancient
copies of the Indian Sociologist, and he regarded almost every
Indian who came near him as a spy sent by the British Govern-
ment.

In London also there was the student centre opened by the
India Office. This was universally regarded by Indians, with a

f reat deal of justification, as a device to spy on Indian students,
lany Indians, however, had to put up with it, whether they
wanted to or not, as it became almost impossible to enter a
university without its recommendation.

The political situation in India had drawn my father into more
active politics and I was pleased at this although I did not agree
with his politics. He had, naturally enough, joined the Moderates
whom he knew and many of whom were his colleagues in his
profession. He presided over a provincial conference in his pro-
vince and took up a strong line against the Extremists of Bengal
and Maharashtra. He also became president of the U.P. Provin-
cial Congress Committee. He was present at Surat in 1907 when
the Congress broke up in disorder and later emerged as a purely
moderate group.

Soon after Surat, H. W. Nevinson stopped with him at Allaha-
bad as his guest for a while and, in hit book on India, he referred
to father as oeing “ moderate in everything except his generosity.”
This was a very wrong estimatej for father was never moderate
in anything except his politics, and step by step his nature drove
him from even that remnant of moderation. A man of strong
feelings, strong passions, tremendous pride and great strength
of will, he was very far from the moderate type. And yet in
1907 and 1908 and for some years afterwards, he was undoubtedly
a moderate of Moderates and he was bitter against the
Extremists, though I believe he admired Tilak.

Why was this so? It was natural for him with his grounding
in law and constitutionalism to take a lawyer’s and a constitu-
tional view of -politics. His clear thinking led him to see that
hard and extreme words lead nowhere unless they are followed by
action appropriate to the language. He saw no effective action in
prospect. The swadeshi and boycott movements did not seem
to him to carry matters far. And then the background of these
movements was a religious nationalism which was alien to his
nature. He did not look back to a revival in India of ancient
times. He had no sympathy or understanding of them and
utterly disliked many old social customs, caste and the like,
which he considered reactionary. He looked to the West and

34 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

felt greatly attracted by Western progress, and thought that this
could come through an association with England.

Socially speaking, the revival of Indian nationalism in 1907
was definitely reactionary. Inevitably, a new nationalism in India,
as elsewhere in the East, was a religious nationalism. The
Moderates thus represented a more advanced social outlook but
they were a mere handful on the top with no touch with the
masses. They did not think much in terms of economics, except
in terms of the new upper middle class which they partly repre-
sented and which wanted room for expansion. They advocated
also petty social reforms to weaken caste and do away with old
social customs which hindered growth.

Having cast his lot with the Moderates, father took an aggres-
sive line. Most of the Extremists, apart from a few leaders in
Bengal and Poona, were young men and it irritated him to find
that these youngsters dared to go their own way. Impatient and
intolerant of opposition, and not suffering people whom he con-
sidered fools, gladly, he pitched into them and hit out whenever
he could. I remember, I think it was after I left Cambridge,
reading an article of his which annoyed me greatly. I wrote him
rather an impertinent letter in whicn I suggested that no doubt
the British Government was greatly pleased with his political
activities. This was just the kind of suggestion which would
make him wild, and he was very angry. He almost thought of
asking me to return from England immediately.

During my stay at Cambndge the question had arisen as to
what career I should take up. For a little while the Indian Civil
Service was contemplated; there was a glamour about it still in
those days. But this idea was dropped as neither my father nor
I were keen on it. The principal reason, I think, was that I was
still under age for it, and if I was to appear for it I would have
to stay three to four years more after taking my degree. I was
twenty when I took my degree at Cambridge and the age-limit
for the I.C.S. in those days was 22 to 34. If successful an extra
year had to be spent in England. My people were a little tired
of my long stay m England and wanted me back soon. Another
reason which weighed with father was that in case I was
appointed to the I.C.S. I would be posted in various distant places
far from home. Both father and mother wanted me near them
after my long absence. So the die was cast in favour of the
paternal profession, the Bar, and I joined the Inner Temple.

' It is curious that in spite of my growing extremism in politics,
I did not then view witn any strong disfavour the idea of joining
the I.C.S. and thus becoming a cog in the British Government’s

HARROW AND CAMBRIDGE

administrative machine in India. Such an idea in later years
would have been repellent to me.

I left Cambridge after taking my degree in 1910. I was only
moderately successful in my science tripos examination, obtain-
ing second class honours. For the next two years I hovered
about London. My law studies did not take up much time and
I got through the Bar examinations, one after the other, with
nether glory nor ignominy. For the rest I simply drifted, doing
some general reading, vaguely attracted to the Fabians and
socialistic ideas, and interested m the political movements of the
day. Ireland and the woman suffrage movement interested me
especially. I remember also how, during a visit to Ireland in the
summer of 1910, the early beginnings of Sinn Fein had attracted
me.

I came across some old Harrow friends and developed expensive
habits in their company. Often I exceeded the handsome allow-
ance that father made me and he was greatly worried on my
account fearing that I was rapidly going to the devil. But as a
matter of fact I was not doing anything so notable. I was merely
trying to ape to some extent the prosperous but somewhat
empty-headed Englishman who is called a ' man about town.’
This soft and pointless existence, needless to say, did not improve
me in any way. My early enthusiasms began to tone down and
the only thing that seemed to go up was my conceit.

During my vacations I had sometimes travelled on the Con-
tinent. In the summer of 1909 my father and I happened to be
in Berlin when Count Zeppelin arrived flying in his new airship
from Friederichshafen on Lake Constance. I believe that was
his first long flight and the occasion was celebrated by a huge
demonstration and a formal welcome by the Kaiser. A vast
multitude, estimated at between one and two millions, gathered
in the Tempelhof Field in Berlin, and the Zeppelin arrived to
time and circled gracefully above us. The Hotel Adlon presented
all its residents that day with a fine picture of Count Zeppelin,
and I have still got that picture.

About two months later we saw in Paris thrf first aeroplane to
fly all over the city and to circle round the Eiffel Tower. The
aviator's name was, I think, Comte de Lambert. Eighteen years
later I was again in Paris when Lindbergh came like a shining
arrow from across the Atlantic.

I had a narrow escape once in Norway where I had gone on a
pleasure cruise soon after taking my degree at Cambridge in
1910. We were tramping across the mountainous country. Hot
and weary we reached our destination, a little hotel, and

»6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

demanded baths. Such a thing had not been heard of there and
there was no provision for it in the building. We were told
however that we could wash ourselves in a neighbouring stream.
So, armed with table napkins or perhaps small face towels, which
the hotel generously gave, two of us, a young Englishman and
I, went to this roaring tbrrent which was coming from a glacier
near by. I entered the water; it was not deep but it was freezing
and the bottom was terribly slippery. I slipped and fell and the
ice-cold water numbed me and made me lose all sensation or
power of controlling my limbs. I could not regain my foothold
and was swept rapidly along by the torrent. My companion,
the Englishman, however, managed to get out and he ran alone
the side and ultimately, succeeding in catching my leg, dragged
me out. Later we realized the danger we were in for about two
or three hundred yards ahead of us this mountain torrent
tumbled over an enormous precipice, forming a waterfall which
was one of the sights of the place.

In the summer of 1913 I was called to the Bar, and in the
autumn of that year I returned to India finally after a stay of
over seven years in England. Twice, in between, I had gone home
during my holidays. But now I returned for good, and I am
afraid, as I landed at Bombay, I was a bit of a prig with little
to commend me.

V

BACK HOME AND WAR-TIME POLITICS
IN INDIA

Towards the end of 1912 India was, politically, very dull Tilak
was in gaol, the Extremists had been sat upon and were lying low
without any effective leadership, Bengal was quiet after the un-
settling of the partition of the province, and the Moderates had
been effectively " rallied ” to the Minto-Morley scheme of coun-
cils. There was some interest in Indians overseas, especially in the
condition of Indians in South Africa. The Congress was a
moderate group, meeting annually, passing some feeble resolu-
tions, and attracting little attention.

I visited, as a delegate, the Bankipore Congress during Christ-
mas 1912. It was very much an English-knowing upper class affair
where morning coats and well-pressed trousers were greatly in
evidence. Essentially it was a social gathering with no political
excitement or tension. Gokhale, fresh from South Africa, at-
tended it and was the outstanding person of the session. High-
strung, full of earnestness and a nervous energy, he seemed to be
<me of the few persons present who took politics and public affairs
seriously and felt deeply about them. I was impressed by him.

A characteristic incident occurred when Gokhale was leaving
Bankipore. He was a member of the Public Services Commission
at the time and, as such, was entitled to a first class railway com-
partment to himself. He was not well and crowds and uncon-
genial company upset him. He liked to be left alone by himself
and, after the strain of the Congress session, he was looking for-
ward to a quiet journey by train. He got his compartment but
the rest of the train was crowded with delegates returning to
Calcutta. After a little while, Bhupendra Nath Basu, who later
became a member of the India Council, came up to Gokhale and
casually asked him if he could travel in his compartment. Mr.
Gokhale was a little taken aback as Mr. Basu was an aggressive
talker, but naturally he agreed. A few minutes later Mr. Basu
again came up to Gokhale and asked him if he would mind if a
friend of his also travelled in the same compartment. Mr. Gok-
hale again mildly agreed. A little before the train left, Mr. Basu
mentioned casually that both he and his friend would find it
very uncomfortable to sleep in the upper berths, so would Gok-
hale mind occupying an upper berth so that the two lower berths

*7

38 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

might be taken by them? And that, I think, was the arrangement
arrived at and poor Mr. Gokhale had to climb up and spend a bad
night.

I took to the law and joined the High Court. The work in-
terested me to a certain extent. The early months after my return
from Europe were pleasant. I was glad to be back home and to
pick up old threads. But gradually the life I led, in common with
most others of my kind, began to lose all its freshness and I felt
that I was* being engulfed in a dull routine of a pointless and
futile existence. I suppose my mongrel, or at least mixed, educa-
tion was responsible for this feeling of dissatisfaction with my
surroundings. The habits and the ideas that had grown in me
during my seven years in England did not fit in with things as I
found than. Fortunately my home atmosphere was fairly con-
genial and that was some help, but it was not enough. For the
rest there was the Bar Library and the club and the same people
were to be found in both, discussing the same old topics, usually
connected with the legal profession, over and over again. De-
cidedly the atmosphere was not intellectually stimulating and a
sense of the utter insipidity of life grew upon me. There were
not even worthwhile amusements or diversions.

G. Lowes Dickinson is reported by E. M. Forster, in his recent
life of him, to have once said about India : “ And why can’t the
races meet? Simply because the Indians bore the English. That
is the simple adamantine fact.” It is possible that most English-
men feel that way and it is not surprising. To quote Forster
again (from another book), every Englishman in India feels and
behaves, and rightly, as if he was a member of an army of occu-
pation, and it is quite impossible for natural and unrestrained
relations between the two races to grow under these circum-
stances. The Englishman and the Indian are always posing to
each other and naturally they feel uncomfortable in each other’s
company. Each bores the other and is glad to get away from him
to breathe freely and move naturally again.

Usually the Englishman meets the same set of Indians, those
connected with the official world, and he seldom reaches really
interesting people, and if he reached them he would not easily
draw them out. The British regime in India has pushed up into

E rominence, even socially, the official class, both British and
adian, and this class is most singularly dull and narrow-minded.
Even a bright young Englishman on coming out to India will
soon relapse into a kind of intellectual and cultural torpor and
will get cut off from all live ideas and movements. After a day in
office, dealing with the ever-rotating and never-ending files, he

WAR-TIME POLITICS IN INDIA

39

will have scone exercise and then go to his dub to mix with his
kind, drink whisky and read Punch and the illustrated weeklies
from England. He hardly reads books and if he does he will
probably :go back to an old favourite. And for this gradual de-
terioration of mind he will blame India, curse the dimate, and
generally anathematise the tribe of agitators who add to his
troubles, not realising that the cause of intellectual and cultural
decay lies in the hide-bound bureaucratic and despotic system of
government which flourishes in India and of which he is a tiny
part.

If that is the fate of the English official, in spite of his leaves
and furloughs, the Indian offirial working with him or under him
is not likely to fare better, for he tries to model himself on the
English type. Few experiences are more dreary than sitting with
high-placed officials, both English and Indian, in that seat of
Empire, New Delhi, and listening to their unending talk about
promotions, leave rules, furloughs, transfers, and litue tit-bits of
Service scandal.

This official and Service atmosphere invaded and set the tone
for almost all Indian middle-class life, especially the English-
knowing intelligentsia, except to some extent in cities like Cal-
cutta and Bombay. Professional men, lawyers, doctors and
others, succumbed to it, and even the academic halls of the semi-
official universities were foil of it. All these people lived in a
world apart, cut off from the masses and even the lower middle
class. Politics was confined to this upper strata. The nationalist
movement in Bengal from 1906 onwards had for the first time
shaken this up and infused a new life in the Bengal lower middle-
class and to a small extent even the masses. This process was to
grow rapidly in later years under Gandhi ji's 1 * * leadership, but a
nationalist struggle though life-giving is a narrow creed and ab-
sorbs too much energy and attention to allow of other activities.

1 I have referred to Mr. Gandhi or Mahatma Gandhi as “Gandhiji”
throughout these pages as he himself prefers this to the addition of
' Mahatma ' to his name. But I have seen some extraordinary ex-
planations of this * ji ’ in books and articles by English writers. Some
nave imagined that it is a term of endearment — Gandhiji meaning
* dear little Gandhi ’ ! This is perfectly absurd and shows colossal
ignorance of Indian life. 4 Ji ’ is one of the commonest additions to a

name in India being applied indiscriminatingly to all kinds of people

and to men, women, boys, girls and children. It conveys an idea of
respect, something equivalent to Mr., Mrs., or Miss. Hindustani is
rich in courtly phrases and prefixes and suffixes to names and hono-

rific titles. ‘ Ji 'is the simplest of these and the least formal of them,

y> JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

I felt, therefore, dissatisfied with life in those early yean after
my return from England. My profession did not fill me with a
whole-hearted enthusiasm. Politics, which to me meant aggres-
sive nationalist activity against foreign rule, offered no scope for
this. I joined the Congress and took part in its occasional meet-
ings. When a special occasion arose, like the agitation against the
Fiji indenture system for Indian workers, or the South African
Indian question, I threw myself into it with energy and worked
hard. But these were only temporary occupations.

I indulged in some diversions like shikar but I had no special
aptitude or inclination for it. I liked the outings and the jungle
and cared little for the killing. Indeed my reputation was a
singularly bloodless one, although I once succeeded, more or less
by a fluke, in killing a bear in Kashmir. An incident with a little
antelope damped even the little ardour that I possessed for shikar.
This harmless little animal fell down at my feet, wounded to
death, and looked up at me with its great big eyes full of tears.
Those eyes have often haunted me since.

I was attracted in those early years to Mr. Gokhale’s Servants
of India Society. I never thought of joining it, partly because its
politics were too moderate for me, and partly because I had no
intention then of giving up my profession. But I had a great
admiration for the members of the society who had devoted
themselves for a bare pittance to the country’s service. Here at
least, I thought, was straight and single-minded and continuous
work even though this might not be on wholly right lines.

Mr. Srinivas Sastri, however, gave me a great shock in a little
matter quite unconnected with politics. He was addressing a
students’ meeting in Allahabad and he told them to be respectful
and obedient to their teachers and professors and to observe care-
fully all the rules and regulations laid down by constituted autho-
rity. All this goody-goody talk did not appeal to me much; it
seemed very platitudinous and somewhat undesirable, with all its
stress on authoritarianism. I thought that this was perhaps due to
the semi-official atmosphere whicn was so prevalent in India. Mr.
Sastri went on and called upon the boys to report each other’s sins
of omission and commission immediately to the authorities. In
other words they were to spy on each other and play the part of

though perfectly correct. I learn from my brother-in-law, Ranjit S.
Pandit, that this ‘ ji ’ has a long and honourable ancestry. It is de-
rived from the Sanskrit Arya meaning a gentleman or noble-bom
(not the Nazi meaning of Aryan I) . This arya became in Prakrit ajja
and this led to the simple ‘ ji ’

WAR-TIME POLITICS IN INDIA 31

informers. These hard words were not used by Mr. Sastri but their
meaning seemed to me dear, and I listened aghast to this friendly
counsel of a great leader. I had freshly returned from England
and the lesson that had been most impressed upon my mind in
school and college was never to betray a colleague. There was no
greater sin against the canons of good form than to sneak and
inform and thus get a companion into trouble. A sudden and
complete reversal of this principle upset me and I felt that there
was a great difference between Mr. Sastri’s morality and the mor-
ality that had been taught to me.

The World War absorbed our attention. It was for off and
did not at first affect our lives much, and India never felt the
full horror of it. Politics petered out and sank into insignifi-
cance. The Defence of India Act (the equivalent of the British
D.O.R.A.) held the country in its grip. From the second year
onwards news of conspiracies and shootings came to us, and of
press-gang methods to enrol recruits in the Punjab.

There was little sympathy with the British in spite of loud
professions of loyalty. Moderate and Extremist alike learnt with
satisfaction of German victories. There was no love for Germany
of course, only the desire to see our own rulers humbled. It was
the weak and helpless man’s idea of vicarious revenge. I suppose
most of us viewed the struggle with mixed feelings. Of all the
nations involved my sympathies were probably most with France.
The ceaseless and unabashed propaganda on behalf of the Allies
had some effect, although we tried to discount it greatly.

Gradually political life grew again. Lokamanya Tilak came out
of prison and Home Rule Leagues were started by him and Mrs.
Besant. I joined both but I worked especially for Mrs. Besant’s
League. Mrs. Besant began to play an ever increasing part in the
Indian political scene. The annual sessions of the Congress be-
came a little more exciting and the Moslem League began to
march with the Congress. The atmosphere became electnc and
most of us young men felt exhilarated and expected big things
in the near future. Mrs. Besant’s internment added greatly to the
excitement of the intelligentsia and vitalised -the Home Rule
Movement all over the country. The Home Rule Leagues were
attracting not only all the old Extremists who had been kept out
of the Congress since 1907 but large numbers of newcomers
from the middle classes. They did not touch the masses.

Mrs. Besant’s internment stirred even the older generation,
including many of the Moderate leaders. Just before the intern-
ment I remember how moved we used to be by the eloquent
speeches of Mr. Srinivasa Sastri which we read in the papers.

32 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

But just before or after the internment suddenly Mr. Sastri
became silent. He failed us completely when the time for action
came and there was considerable disappointment and resentment
at his silence when most of all a lead was needed. I am afraid
that ever since then the conviction has grown upon me that Mr.
Sastri is not a man of action and a crisis does not suit his genius.

Other Moderate leaders, however, went ahead, some to draw
back later, some to remain in the new position. I remember that
there was a great deal of discussion in those days about the new
Indian Defence Force which the Government was organising
from the middle classes on the lines of the European defence
forces in India. This Indian force was treated very differently
from the European force in a variety of ways, and many of us
felt that we should not co-operate with it till these humiliating
distinctions were removed. After much discussion, however, we
decided to cooperate in the U.P. as it was considered worth while
for our young men to have military training even under these
conditions. 1 sent my application to join the new force, and we
formed a committee m Allahabad to push the scheme on. Just
then came Mrs. Besant’s internment and in the excitement of
the moment I managed to get the committee members — they in-
cluded my father, Dr. Tej Bahadur Sapru, Mr. C. Y. Chintamani
and other Moderate leaders — to agree to cancel our meeting and
all other work in connection with the Defence Force as a protest
against the Government’s action. A public notice was issued im-
mediately to this effect. I think some of the signatories regretted
later this aggressive act in war time.

Mrs. Besant's internment also resulted in my father, and other
Moderate leaders joining the Home Rule League. Some months
later most of these Moderate members resigned from the League.
My father remained in it and became the president of the Alla-
habad branch.

Gradually my father had been drifting away from the orthodox
Moderate position. His nature rebelled against too much sub-
mission and appeal to an authority which ignored us and treated
us disdainfully. But the old Extremist leaders did not attract
him ; their language and methods jarred upon him. The episode
of Mrs. Besant’s internment and subsequent events influenced
him considerably but still he hesitated before definitely com-
mitting tpmself to a forward line. Often he used to say in those
days that moderate tactics were no good, but nothing effective
could be done till some solution for the Hindu-Muslim question
was found. If this was found then he promised to go ahead with
the youngest of us. The adoption by the Congress at Lucknow in

WAR-TIME POLITICS IN INDIA 33

1916 of the Joint Congress-League Scheme, which had been
drawn up at a meeting of the All India Congress Committee in
our house, pleased him greatly as it opened the way to a joint
effort and he was prepared to go ahead then even at the cost of
breaking with his old colleagues of the Moderate group. They
pulled together till and during Edwin Montagu’s visit to India as
Secretary of State. Differences arose soon after the publication
of the Montagu-Chelmsford Report, and the final break in the
United Provinces came in the summer of 1918 at a special pro-
vincial conference held at Lucknow over which my father pre-
sided. The Moderates, expecting that this conference would
adopt a strong line against the Montagu-Chelmsford proposals,
boycotted the conference. Later they also boycotted tne special
session of the Congress held to consider these proposals. Since
then they have been out of the Congress.

This Moderate practice of quietly dropping out and keeping
away from the Congress sessions and other public gatherings ana
not even presenting their viewpoint and fighting for it, even
though the majority might be against them, struck me as
peculiarly undignified and unbecoming in public workers. I
think that was the general sense of large numbers of people in
the country and I am sure that the almost total collapse of the
Moderates in Indian politics was partly due to this timid attitude.
Mr. Sastri was, I think, the only Moderate leader who attended
some of the early sessions of the Congress, which had been boy-
cotted by the Moderates as a group, and put forward his solitary
viewpoint. He went up in public estimation because of it.

My own political and public activities in the early war years
were modest and I kept away from addressing public gatherings.
I was still diffident and terrified of public speaking. Partly also
I felt that public speeches should not be in English and I doubted
my capacity to speak at any length in Hindustani. I remember
a little incident when I was induced to deliver my first public
speech in Allahabad. Probably it was in 1915 but I am not clear
about dates and am rather mixed up about the order of events.
The occasion was a protest meeting against a pew Act muzzling
the press. I spoke briefly and in English. As soon as the meeting
was over Dr. Tej Bahadur Sapru, to my great embarrassment,
embraced and kissed me in public on the dais. This was not be-
cause of what I had said or how I had said it. His effusive joy
was caused by the mere fact that I had spoken in public and thus
a new recruit had been obtained for public work, for this work
consisted in those days practically of speaking only.

I remember that many of us young men in Allahabad then

34 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

had a faint Hope that perhaps Dr. Sapru might take up a more
advanced attitude in politics. Of all the Moderate group in the
city he seemed to be the most likely to do so because he was
emotional and could occasionally be carried by enthusiasm. Com-
pared to him my father seemed cold-bloodedness itself, though
underneath this outer cover there was fire enough. But father's
strength of will left us little hope and for a brief while we actu-
ally had greater expectations from Dr. Sapru. Pandit Madan
Mohan Malaviya, with his long record of public work, attracted
us of course and we used to have long talks with him, pressing
him to give a brave lead to the country.

At home, in those early years, political questions were not
peaceful subjects for discussion, and references to them, which
were frequent, immediately produced a tense atmosphere. Father
had been closely watching my growing drift towards Extremism,
my continual criticism of the politics of talk and my insistent
demand for action. What action it should be was not clear, and
sometimes father imagined that I was heading straight for the
violent courses adopted by some of the young men of Bengal.
This worried him very much. As a matter of fact I was not
attracted that way, but the idea that we must not tamely submit
to existing conditions and that something must be done began to
obsess me more and more. Successful action, from the national
point of view, did not seem to be at all easy, but I felt that both
individual and national honour demanded a more aggressive and
fighting attitude to foreign rule. Father himself was dissatisfied
with the Moderate philosophy, and a mental conflict was going on
inside him. He was too obstinate to change from one position to
another until he was absolutely convinced that there was no other
way. Each step forward meant for him a hard and bitter tussle in
his mind, and when the step was taken after that struggle with
part of himself, there was no going back. He bad not taken it in
a fit of enthusiasm but as a result of intellectual conviction, and
then, having done so, all his pride prevented him from looking
back.

The outward change in his politics came about the time of
Mrs. Besant’s internment and from that time onwards step by
step he went ahead, leaving his old Moderate colleagues far be-
hind, till the tragic happenings in the Punjab in 1919 finally led
him to cut adrift from his old life and his profession, and throw
in his lot with the new movement started by Gandhiji.

But that was still to be, and from 1915 to 1917 he was still unsure
of what to do, and the doubts in him, added to his worries about
me, did not make him a peaceful talker on the public issues of

WAR-TIME POLITICS IN INDIA

35

the day. Often enough our talks ended abruptly by his losing his
temper with us.

My first meeting with Gandhiji was about the time of the
Lucknow Congress during Christmas 1916. All of us admired
him for his heroic fight in South Africa, but he seemed very dis-
tant and different and unpolitical to many of us young men. He
refused to take part in Congress or national politics then and con-
fined himself to the South African Indian question. Soon after-
wards his adventures and victory in Champaran, on behalf of
the tenants of the planters, filled us with enthusiasm. We saw
that he was prepared to apply his methods in India also and they
promised success.

I remember being moved also, in those days after the Lucknow
Congress, by a number of eloquent speeches delivered by Sarojini
Naidu in Allahabad. It was all nationalism and patriotism and I
was a pure nationalist, my vague socialist ideas of college days
having sunk into the background. Roger Casement’s wonderful
speech at his trial in 1916 seemed to point out exactly how a
member of a subject nation should feel. The Easter Week rising
in Ireland by its very failure attracted, for was that not true
courage which mocked at almost certain failure and proclaimed
to the world that no physical might could crush the invincible
spirit of a nation?

Such were my thoughts then, and yet fresh reading was again
stirring the embers of socialistic ideas in my head. They were
vague ideas, more humanitarian and utopian than scientific. A
favourite writer of mine during the war years and after was
Bertrand Russell.

These thoughts and desires produced a growing conflict within
me and a dissatisfaction with my profession of the law. I carried
on with it because there was nothing else to be done, but I felt
more and more that it was not possible to reconcile public work,
especially of the aggressive type which appealed to me, with the
lawyer’s job. It was not a question of principle but of time and
energy. Sir Rash Behary Ghosh, the eminent Calcutta lawyer,
who for some unknown reason took a fancy tome, gave me a lot
of good advice as to how to get on in the profession. He especially
advised me to write a book on a legal subject of my choice, as he
said that this was the best way for a junior to train himself. He
offered to help me with ideas m the writing of it and to revise it.
But all his well meant interest in my legal career was in vain, and
few things could be more distasteful to me than to spend my time
and energy in writing legal books.

Sir Rash Behary in his old age was extraordinarily irritable and

36 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

short of temper and a terror for his juniors. I rather liked him,
however, and his very failings and weaknesses were not wholly
unattractive. Father and I were once his guests in Simla. It was
in 1918 , 1 think, just when the Montagu 4 jhelmsford report came
out. He invited to dinner a few friends one evening and among
them was old Mr. Khaparde. After dinner Sir Kash Behary
and Mr. Khaparde became loud and aggressive in their argu-
ments for they belonged to rival schools of politics, Sir Rash
Behary being a confirmed Moderate and Mr. Khaparde was then
supposed to be a leading Tilakite, although in later years he be-
came as mild as a dove and too moderate even for the Moderates.
Mr. Khaparde began criticising Mr. Gokhale (who had died
some years previously), saying that he had been a British agent
who had spied on him in London. This was too much for Sir
Rash Behary and he shouted that Gokhale had been the best of
men and a particular friend of his and that he would not
permit any one to say a word against him. Mr. Khaparde then
branched off to Mr. Srinivas Sastri. Sir Rash Behary did not
like this but he did not resent it quite so much. Apparently he
was not such an admirer of Mr. Sastri’s as he had been of
Gokhale’s. Indeed he said that so long as Gokhale had been alive
he had helped the Servants of India Society financially but since
his death he had stopped his contribution. Mr. Khaparde then,
as a contrast, began praising Tilak. Here was a truly great man,
he said, a wonderful person, a saint. <r A saint I ” retorted Sir
Rash Behary, “ I hate saints, I want to have nothing to do with
them.”

VI

MY WEDDING AND AN ADVENTURE IN
THE HIMALAYAS

My marriage took place in 1916 in the city of Delhi. It was on
the Vasanta Panchami day which heralds the coming of spring
in India. That summer we spent some months in Kashmir. I left
my family in the valley and, together with a cousin of mine,
wandered for several weeks in the mountains and went up the
Ladakh road.

This was my first experience of the narrow and lonely
valleys, high up in the world, which lead to the Tibetan
plateau. From the top of the Zoji-la pass we saw the rich verdant
mountain sides below us on one side and the bare bleak rock on
the other. We went up and up the narrow valley bottom flanked
on each side by mountains, with the snow-covered tops gleaming
on one side and little glaciers creeping down to meet us. The
wind was cold and bitter but the sun was warm in the day time,
and the air was so clear that often we were misled about the dis-
tance of objects, thinking them much nearer than they actually
were. The loneliness grew ; there were not even trees or vegetation
to keep us company— only the bare rock and the snow and ice
and, sometimes, very welcome flowers. Yet I found a strange
satisfaction in these wild and desolate haunts of nature; I was
full of energy and a feeling of exaltation.

I had an exciting experience during this visit. At one place on
our march beyond the Zoji-la pass— I think it was called Matayan
— we were told that the cave of Amaranath was only eight miles
away. It was true that an enormous mountain all covered with
ice and snow lay in between and had to be crossed, but what did
that matter? Eight miles seemed so little. In our enthusiasm and
inexperience we decided to make the attempt. So we left our
camp (which was situated at about 1 1 ,500 feet altitude) and with
a small party went up the mountain. We had a local shepherd
for a guide.

We crossed and climbed several glaciers, roping ourselves
up, and our troubles increased and breathing became a little
difficult. Some of cur porters, lightly laden as they were, began
to bring up blood. It began to snow and the glaciers became
terribly slippery; we were fagged out and every step meant
a special effort. But still we persisted in our foolhardy attempt.

37

38 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Wc had left our camp at four in the morning and after twelve
hours’ almost continuous climbing we were rewarded by the
sight of a huge ice-field. This was a magnificent sight, surrounded
as it was by snow-peaks, like a diadem or an amphitheatre of the
gods. But fresh snow and mists soon hid the sight from us. I do
not know what our altitude was but I think it must have been
about 15,000 to 16,000 feet, as we were considerably higher than
the cave of Amaranath. We had now to cross this ice-field, a
distance probably of half a mile, and then go down on the other
side to the cave. We thought that as the climbing was over, our
principal difficulties had also been surmounted, and so, very
tired but in good humour, we began this stage of the journey. It
was a tricky business as there were many crevasses and the fresh
snow often covered a dangerous spot. It was this fresh snow that
almost proved to be my undoing, for I stepped upon it and it
gave way and down I went a huge and yawning crevasse. It was
a tremendous fissure and anything that went right down it could
be assured of safe keeping and preservation for some geological
ages. But the rope held and I clutched to the side of the crevasse
and was pulled out. We were shaken up by this but still we per-
sisted in going on. The crevasses, however, increased in number
and width and we had no equipment or means of crossing some
of them. And so at last we turned back, weary and disappointed,
and the cave of Amaranath remained unvisited.

The higher valleys and mountains of Kashmir fascinated me
so much that I resolved to come back again soon. I made many
a plan and worked out many a tour, and one, the very thought of
which filled me with delight, was a visit to Manasarovar, the
wonder lake of Tibet, and snow-covered Kailas near by. That was
eighteen years ago, and I am still as far as ever from Kailas and
Manasarovar. I have not even been to visit Kashmir again, much
as I have longed to, and ever more and more I have got en-
tangled in the coils of politics and public affairs. Instead of
going up mountains or crossing the seas I have to satisfy my
wanderlust by coming to prison. But still I plan, for that is a joy
that no one can deny even in prison, and besides what else can
one do in prison? And I dream of the day when I shall wander
about the Himalayas and cross them to reach that lake and
mountain of my desire. But meanwhile the sands of life run on
and youth passes into middle age and that will give place
to something' worse, and sometimes I think that I may grow
too old to reach Kailas and Manasarovar. But the journey
is always worth the making even though the end may not be
in sight.

MY WEDDING AND AN ADVENTURE

“ Yea, in my mind these mountains rise.
Their perils dyed with evening's rose ;
And still my ghost sits at my eyes

And thirsts for their untroubled snows .’ 9

1 Walter de la Mare.

VII

THE COMING OF GANDHI JI: SATYAGRAHA
AND AMRITSAR

The end of the World War found India in a state of suppressed
excitement. Industrialisation had spread and the capitalist class
had grown in wealth and power. This handful at the top had
prospered and were greedy for more power and opportunity to
invest their savings and add to their wealth. The great majority,
however, were not so fortunate and looked forward to a lighten-
ing of the burdens that crushed them. Among the middle classes
there was everywhere an expectation of great constitutional
changes which would bring a large measure of self-rule and thus
better their lot by opening out many fresh avenues of growth to
them. Political agitation, peaceful and wholly constitutional as
it was, seemed to be working itself to a head and people talked
with assurance of self-determination and self-government. Some
of this unrest was visible also among the masses, especially the
peasantry. In the rural areas of the Punjab the forcible methods
of recruitment were still bitterly remembered, and the fierce
suppression of the * Komagata Maru * people and others by con-
spiracy trials added to the widespread resentment. The soldiers
back from active service on distant fronts were no longer the
subservient robots that they used to be. They had grown men-
tally and there was much discontent among them.

Among the Muslims there was anger over the treatment of
Turkey and the Khilafat question and an agitation was growing.
The treaty with Turkey had not been signed yet, but the whole
situation was ominous. So, while they agitatea, they waited.

The dominant note all over India was one of waiting and
expectation, full of hope and yet tineed with fear and anxiety.
Then came the Rowlatt Bills with their drastic provisions for
arrest and trial without any of the checks and formalities which
the law is supposed to provide. A wave of anger greeted them
all over India and even the Moderates joined in this and opposed
the measures with all their might. Indeed there was universal
opposition on the part of Indians of all shades of opinion. Still
the Bills were pushed through by the officials and became law,
the principal concession made Deing to limit them for three
years.

It is instructive to look back after fifteen years to these Bills

40

THE COMING OF CANDHIJI 41

and the upheaval they caused. They were made into law and yet,
so far as I know, they were never used even once during the three
years of their life— three years which were not quiet years but
were the most troubled years that India had known since the
Revolt of 1857. Thus the British Government, in the teeth of
unanimous public opinion, pushed through a law which they
themselves never used afterwards, and thus invited an upheaval.
One might almost think that the object of the measure was to
bring trouble.

Another interesting fact is this. To-day, fifteen years later, we
have any number of laws on the statute book, functioning from
day to day, which are far harsher than the Rowlatt Bills were.
Compared to these new laws and ordinances, under which we
now enjoy the blessings of British rule, the Rowlatt Bills might
almost be considered a charter of liberty. There is this difference,
of course: since 1919 we have had a large instalment of what
is called self-government, known as the Montagu-Chelmsfbrd
scheme, and now we are told that we are on the verge of another
big instalment. We progress.

Gandhiji had passed through a serious illness early in 1919.
Almost from his sick bed he begged the Viceroy not to give his
consent to the Rowlatt Bills. That appeal was ignored as others
had been and then, almost against nis will, Gandhiji took the
leadership in his first all-India agitation. He started the Satyag-
raha Sabha, the members of which were pledged to disobey the
Rowlatt Act, if it was applied to them, as well as other objection-
able laws to be specified from time to time. In other words they
were to court gaol openly and deliberately.

When I first read about this proposal in the newspapers my
reaction was one of tremendous relief. Here at last was a way
out of the tangle, a method of action which was straight and
open and possibly effective. I was afire with enthusiasm and
wanted to join the Satyagraha Sabha immediately. I hardly
thought of the consequences — law-breaking, gaol-going, etc. —
and if I thought of them I did not care. But suddenly my ardour
was damped and I realised that all was not plain sailing. My
father was dead against this new idea. He was not in the habit
of being swept away by new proposals; he thought carefully of
the consequences before he took any fresh step. And the more he
thought of the Satyagraha Sabha and its programme, the less he
liked it. What good would the gaol-going of a number of indi-
viduals do, what pressure could it bring on the Government?
Apart from these general considerations, what really moved him
was the personal issue. It seemed to him preposterous that I

42 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

should go to prison. The trek to prison had not then begun and
the idea was most repulsive. Father was intensely attached to his
children. He was not showy in his affection, but behind his
restraint there was a great love.

For many days there was this mental conflict, and because
both of us felt tnat big issues were at stake involving a complete
upsetting of our lives, we tried hard to be as considerate to each
other as possible. I wanted to lessen his obvious suffering if I
could, but I had no doubt in my mind that I had to go the way
of Satyagraha. Both of us had a distressing time, and night after
night I wandered about alone, tortured in mind and trying to
grope my way out. Father — I discovered later— actually tried
sleeping on the floor to find out what it was like, as he tnought
that this would be my lot in prison.

Gandhiji came to Allahabad at father’s request and they had
long talks at which I was not present. As a result Gandhiji
advised me not to precipitate matters or to do anything which
might upset father. I was not happy at this, but other events
took place in India which changed the whole situation, and the
Satyagraha Sabha stopped its activities.

Satyagraha Day— all-India hartals and complete suspension of
business — firing by the police and military at Delhi ana Amritsar,
and the killing of many people — mob violence in Amritsar and
Ahmedabad — the massacre of Jallianwala Bagh — the long horror
and terrible indignity of martial law in the Punjab. The Punjab
was isolated, cut off from the rest of India; a thick veil seemed
to cover it and hide it from outside eyes. There was hardly
any news, and people could not go there or come out from
there.

Odd individuals, who managed to escape from that inferno,
were so terror-struck that they could give no clear account. Help-
lessly and impotently, we, who were outside, waited for scraps of
news and bitterness filled our hearts. Some of us wanted to go
openly to the affected parts of the Punjab and defy the martial
law regulations. But we were kept back, and meanwhile a big
organisation for relief and enquiry was set up on behalf of the
Congress.

As soon as martial law was withdrawn from the principal areas
and outsiders were allowed to come in, prominent Congressmen
and others poured into the Punjab offering their services for
relief or enquiry work. The relief work was largely directed by
Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya and Swami Shraddnananda; the
enquiry part was mainly under the direction of my father and
Mr. C. R. Das, with Gandhiji taking a great deal of interest in

THE COMING OF GANDHIJI 43

it and often being consulted by the others. Deshbandhu Das
especially took the Amritsar area under his charge and I was
deputed to accompany him there and assist him in any way he
desired. That was the first occasion I had of working with him
and under him and I valued that experience very much and my
admiration for him grew. Most of the evidence relating to
Jallianwala Bagh and that terrible lane where human beings were
made to crawl on their bellies, that subsequently appeared in the
Congress Inquiry Report, was taken down in our presence. We
paid numerous visits to the so-called Bagh itself and examined
every bit of it carefully.

A suggestion has been made, I think by Mr. Edward Thomp-
son, that General Dyer was under the impression that there were
other exits from the Bagh and it was because of this that he
continued his firing for so long. Even if that was Dyer’s impres-
sion, and there were in fact some exits, that would hardly lessen
his responsibility. But it seems very strange that he should have
such an impression. Any person, standing on the raised ground
where he stood, could have a good view of the entire space and
could see how shut in it was on all sides by houses several storeys
high. Only on one side, for a hundred feet or so, there was no
house, but a low wall about five feet high. With a murderous
fire mowing them down and unable to find a way out, thousands
of people rushed to this wall and tried to climb over it. The
fire was then directed, it appears (both from our evidence and the
innumerable bullet-marks on the wall itself) towards this wall to
prevent people from escaping over it. And when all was over,
some of the biggest heaps of dead and wounded lay on either
side of this wall.

Towards the end of that year (1919) I travelled from Amritsar
to Delhi by the night train. The compartment I entered was
almost full and all the berths, except one upper one, were occu-
pied by sleeping passengers. I took the vacant upper berth. In
the morning I discovered that all my fellow-passengers were
military officers. They conversed with each other in loud voices
which I could not help overhearing. One of thfem was holding
forth in an aggressive and triumphant tone and soon I discovered
that he was Dyer, the hero 01 Jallianwala Bagh, and he was
describing his Amritsar experiences. He pointed out how he had
the whole town at his mercy and he had felt like reducing the
rebellious city to a heap of ashes, but he took pity on it and

efrained. He was evidently coming back from Lahore after

iving his evidence before the Hunter Committee of Inquiry.

was greatly shocked to hear his conversation and to observe his

44 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

callous manner. He descended at Delhi station in pyjamas with
btieht pink stripes, and a dressing-gown.

During the Punjab inquiry I saw a great deal of Gandhiji.
Very often his proposals seemed novel to our committee and it
did not approve of them. But almost always he argued his way
to their acceptance and subsequent events showed the wisdom of
his advice. Faith in his political insight grew in me.

The Punjab happenings and the inquiry into them had a
profound effect on father. His whole legal and constitutional
foundations were shaken by them and his mind was gradually
prepared for that change which was to come a year later. He had
already moved far from his old moderate position. Dissatisfied
with the leading Moderate newspaper, the Leader of Allahabad,
he had started another daily, the Independent, from Allahabad
early in 1919. This paper met with great success, but from the
very beginning it was handicapped by quite an amazing degree
of incompetence in the running of it. Almost everybody con-
nected with it — directors, editors, managerial staff— had their
share of responsibility for this. I was one of the directors, with-
out the least experience of the job, and the troubles and the
squabbles of the paper became quite a nightmare to me. Both
my father and I were, however, soon dragged away to the Punjab,
and during our long absence the paper deteriorated greatly and
became involved in financial difficulties. It never recovered from
them, and, although it had bright patches in 1920 and 1921, it
began to go to pieces as soon as we went to gaol. It expired finally
early in 1923. This experience of newspaper proprietorship gave
me a fright and ever since I have refused to assume responsibility
as a director of any newspaper. Indeed I could not do so because
of my preoccupations in prison and outside.

Father presided over the Amritsar Congress during Christmas
1919. He issued a moving appeal to the Moderate leaders or the
Liberals, as they were now calling themselves, to join this session
because of the new situation created by the horrors of martial
law. “ The lacerated heart of the Punjab ” called to them, he
wrote. Would they not answer that call? But they did not
answer it in the way he wanted, and refused to join. Their eyes
were on the new reforms that were coming as a result of the
Montagu-Chelmsford recommendations. This refusal hurt father
and widened the gulf between him and the Liberals.

The Amritsar Congress was the first Gandhi Congress. Loka-
manya Tilak was also present and took a prominent part in the
deliberations, but there could be no doubt about it that the
majority of the delegates, and even more so the great crowds

THE COMING OF GANDHIJI 45

outside, looked to Gandhi for leadership. The slogan Mahatma
Gandhi ki jai began to dominate the Indian political horizon.
The Ali Brothers, recently discharged from internment, imme-
diately joined the Congress, and the national movement began
to take a new shape and develop a new orientation.

M. Mohammad Ali went off soon on a Khilafat deputation to
Europe. In India the Khilafat Committee came more and more
under Gandhiji’s influence and began to flirt with his ideas of
non-violent non-co-operation. I remember one of the earliest
meetings of the Khilafat leaders and Moulvies and Ulemas in
Delhi in January 1920. A Khilafat deputation was going to wait
on the Viceroy, and Gandhiji was to join it. Before he reached
Delhi, however, a draft of the proposed address was, according
to custom, sent to the Viceroy. When Gandhiji arrived and read
this draft, he strongly disapproved of it and even said that he
could not be a party to the deputation, if this draft was not
materially altered. His objection was that the draft was vague
and wordy and there was no clear indication in it of the abso-
lute minimum demands which the Muslims must have. He
said that this was not fair to the Viceroy and the British Govern-
ment, or to the people, or to themselves. They must not make
exaggerated demands which they were not going to press, but
should state the minimum clearly and without possibility of
doubt, and stand by it to the death. If they were serious, this
was the only right and honourable course to adopt.

This argument was a novel one in political or other circles in
India. We were used to vague exaggerations and flowery lan-
guage and always there was an idea of a bargain in our minds.
Gandhiji, however, carried his point and he wrote to the Private
Secretary of the Viceroy, pointing out the defects and vagueness
of the draft address sent, and forwarding a few additional para-
graphs to be added to it. These paragraphs gave the minimum
demands. The Viceroy's reply was interesting. He refused to
accept the new paragraphs and said that the previous draft was,
in his opinion, quite proper. Gandhiji felt that this corres-
pondence had made his own position and that of the Khilafat
Committee clear, and so he joined the deputatibn after all.

It was obvious that the Government were not going to accept
the demands of the Khilafat Committee and a struggle was
therefore bound to come. There were long talks with the
Moulvies and the Ulemas, and non-violence and non-co-operation
were discussed, especially non-violence. Gandhiji told them that
he was theirs to command, but on the definite understanding
that they accepted non-violence with all its implications. There

4 6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

was to be no weakening on that, no temporising, no mental
reservations. It was not easy for the Moulvies to grasp this idea
but they agreed, making it clear that they did so as a policy
only and not as a creed, for their religion did not prohibit the
use of violence in a righteous cause.

The political and the Khilafat movements developed side by
side during that year 1920, both going in the same direction and
eventually joining hands with the adoption by the Congress of
Gandhiji*s non-violent non-co-operation. The Khilafat Com-
mittee adopted this programme first, and August 1st was fixed
for the commencement of the campaign.

Earlier in the year a Muslim meeting (I think it was the Council
of the Moslem League) was held in Allahabad to consider this
programme. The meeting took place in Syed Raza Ali’s house.
M. Mohammad Ali was still in Europe but M. Shaukat Ali was
present. I remember that meeting because it thoroughly dis-
appointed me. Shaukat Ali was, of course, full of enthusiasm
but almost all the others looked thoroughly unhappy and uncom-
fortable. They did not have the courage to disagree and yet
they obviously had no intention of doing anything rash. Were
these the people to lead a revolutionary movement, I thought,
and to challenge the British Empire? Gandhiji addressed them
and after hearing him they looked even more frightened than
before. He spoke well in his best dictatorial vein. He was humble
but also clear-cut and hard as a diamond, pleasant and soft-
spoken but inflexible and terribly earnest. His eyes were mild
and deep, yet out of them blazed out a fierce energy and deter-
mination. This is going to be a great struggle, he said, with a
very powerful adversary. If you want to take it up, you must
be prepared to lose everything, and you must subject yourself
to the strictest non-violence and discipline. When war is declared
martial law prevails, and in our non-violent struggle there will
also have to be dictatorship and martial law on our side, if we
are to win. You have every right to kick me out, to demand my
head, or to punish me whenever and howsoever you choose. But
so long as you choose to keep me as your leader you must accept
my conditions, you must accept dictatorship and the discipline
of martial law. But that dictatorship will always be subject to
your goodwill and to your acceptance and to your co-operation.
The moment you have had enough of me, throw me out,
trample upon me, and I shall not complain.

Something to this effect he said and these military analogies
and the unyielding earnestness of the man made the flesh of
most of his hearers creep. But Shaukat Ali was there to keep

THE COMING OF GANDHIJI 47

the waverers up to the mark, and when the time for voting came
the great majority of them quietly and shamefacedly voted for
the proposition, tnat is for war!

As we were coming home from the meeting I asked Gandhiji
if this was the way to start a great struggle. I had expected
enthusiasm, spirited language and a flashing of eyes; instead we
saw a very tame gathering of timid, middle-aged folk. And yet
these people, such was the pressure of mass opinion, voted for
the struggle. Of course, very few of these members of the
Moslem League joined the struggle later. Many of them found
a safe sanctuary in Government jobs. The Moslem League did
not represent, then or later, any considerable section of Moslem
opinion. It was the Khilafat Committee of 1920 that was a
powerful and far more representative body, and it was this Com-
mittee that entered upon the struggle with enthusiasm.

The 1st of August had been fixed by Gandhiji for the
inauguration of non-co-operation, although the Congress had
not considered or accepted the proposal so far. On that day
Lokamanya Tilak died in Bombay. That very morning Gandhiji
had reached Bombay after a tour in Sindh. I was with him and
we joined that mighty demonstration in which the whole of
Bombay's million population seemed to have poured out to do
reverence to the great leader whom they had loved so well.

VIII

I AM EXTERNED AND THE CONSEQUENCES
THEREOF

Mr politics had been those of my class, the bourgeoisie. Indeed
all vocal politics then (and to a great extent even now) were those
of the middle classes, and Moderate and Extremist alike repre-
sented them and, in different keys, sought their betterment. The
Moderate represented especially the handful of the upper middle
class who had on the whole prospered under British rule and
wanted no sudden changes which might endanger their present
position and interests. They had close relations with the British
Government and the big landlord class. The Extremist repre-
sented also the lower ranks of the middle class. The industrial
workers, their number swollen up by the war, were only locally
organised in some places and had little influence. The peasantry
were a blind, poverty-stricken, suffering mass, resigned to their
miserable fate and sat upon and exploited by all who came in
contact with them— the Government, landlords, money-lenders,
petty officials, police, lawyers, priests.

A reader of the newspapers would hardly imagine that a vast
peasantry and millions of workers existed in India or had any
importance. The British-owned Anglo-Indian newspapers were
full of the doings of high officials; English social life in the big
cities and in the hill stations was described at great length with
its panics, fancy-dress balls and amateur theatricals. Indian
politics, from the Indian point of view, were almost completely
ignored by them, even the Congress sessions being disposed of
in a few lines on a back page. They were not considered news
of any value except when some Indian, prominent or otherwise,
slanged or criticised the Congress and its pretensions. Occasion-
ally there was a brief reference to a strike, and the rural areas
only came into prominence when there was a riot.

Indian newspapers tried to model themselves on the Anglo-
Indian ones but gave much greater prominence to the nationalist
movement. For the rest they were interested in the appointment
of Indians to important or unimportant offices, their promotions
and transfers— when there was always a party given to the out-
going officer at which " great enthusiasm prevailed ”. At the
time of a fresh Government settlement of an agricultural area,
which almost always resulted in an increase of Government

I AM BXTERNED

49

revenue, there was an outcry because the landlord’s pocket was
affected. The poor tenant was nowhere in the picture. These
newspapers were owned and controlled chiefly by the landlords
and the industrialists. Such was that which was called the
“nationalist ” press.

One of the persistent demands of the Congress itself, during
its early years, was a permanent settlement of the land in the
non-settled areas, in order that the rights of the landlords might
be protected. No mention was made of the tenant.

Conditions have changed greatly during the last twenty years
because of the growth of the nationalist movement, and now
even the British-owned newspapers have to give space to Indian
political problems if they are to retain their Indian readers.
But they do so in their own peculiar way. Indian newspapers
have developed a slightly wider outlook and talk benevolently of
the worker and the peasant, because that is the fashion, and there
is a growing interest in industrial and rural problems among their
readers. But essentially now, as before, they voice the interests
of the Indian capitalist and landlord class which owns them.
Many Indian princes have also taken to investing money in these
newspapers and they see to it that they get their money’s worth.
Yet many of these newspapers are called “ Congress ” news-
papers, although many of those who control them are not even
members of the Congress. But the Congress is a popular word
with the public and many an individual and a group exploit it
to their advantage. Newspapers which are prepared to take up
a more advanced position have, of course, always to live in fear
of big fines or even of suppression under the stringent press
laws and censorship.

In 1920 I was totally ignorant of labour conditions in factories
or fields, and my political outlook was entirely bourgeois. I knew,
of course, that there was terrible poverty and misery, and I felt
that the first aim of a politically free India must be to tackle
this problem of poverty. But political freedom, with the
inevitable dominance of the middle class, seemed to me the
obvious next step. I was paying a little more attention to the
peasant problem since Gandhiji’s agrarian movements in Cham-
paran (Bthar) and Kaira (Gujrat). But my mind was full of
political developments in 1920 and of the coming of non-
co-operation which was looming on the horizon.

Just then a new interest developed in my life which was to
play an important part in later years. I was thrown, almost
without any will of my own, into contact with the peasantry.
This came about in a curious way.
c

50 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

My mother and’Kamala (my wife) were both unwell, and early
m May 1920 I took them up to Mussoorie. My father was busy
then in a big raj case in which he was opposing Mr. C. R. Das.
We stopped at the Savoy Hotel in Mussoorie. At that time, peace
negotiations were proceeding between the Afghan and British
envoys (this was after the brief Afghan War in 1919 when
Amanullah came to the throne) at Mussoorie, and the Afghan
delegation were stopping at the Savoy Hotel. They kept to them-
selves, however, fed separately, and did not appear in the
common rooms. I was not particularly interested in them, and
for a whole month I did not see a single member of their delega-
tion, and if I saw them I did not recognise them. Suddenly one
evening I had a visit from the Superintendent of Police and
he showed me a letter from the local Government asking him to
get an undertaking from me that I would not have any dealings
or contacts with the Afghan delegation. This struck me as extra-
ordinary since I had not even seen them during a month’s stay
and there was little chance of my doing so. The Superintendent
knew this, as he was closely watching the delegation, and there
were literally crowds of secret service men about. But to give
any undertaking went against the grain and I told him so. He
asked me to see the District Magistrate, the Superintendent of
the Dun, and I did so. As I persisted in my refusal to give an
undertaking an order of externment was served on me, calling
upon me to leave the district of Dehra Dun within twenty-four
hours, which really meant within a few hours from Mussoorie.
I did not like the idea of leaving my mother and wife, both
of whom were ailing; and yet I did not think it right to break
the order. There was no civil disobedience then. So I left
Mussoorie.

My father had known Sir Harcourt Butler, who was then
Governor of the United Provinces, fairly well, and he wrote to
him a friendly letter saying that he was sure that he (Sir
Harcourt) could not have issued such a stupid order; it must
be some bright person in Simla who was responsible for it. Sir
Harcourt replied that the order was quite a harmless one and
Jawaharlal could easily have complied with it without any injury
to his dignity. Father, in reply, disagreed with this and added
that, although there was no intention of deliberately breaking
the order, if my mother’s or wife’s health demanded it, I would
certainly return to Mussoorie, order or no order. As it happened,
my mother’s condition took a turn for the worse, and both father
and I immediately started for Mussoorie. Just before starting,
we received a telegram rescinding the order.

I AM EXTERNED

5«

When we reached Mussoorie the next morning the first person
I noticed in the courtyard of the hotel was an Afghan who had
my baby daughter in his arms I I learnt that he was a minister
and a member of the Afghan delegation. It transpired that
immediately after my extemment the Afghans had read about
it in the newspapers, and they were so much interested that the
head of the delegation took to sending my mother a basket of
fruit and flowers every day.

Father and I met one or two members of the delegation later
and we were cordially invited to visit Afghanistan. Unhappily
we were unable to take advantage of this offer, and I do not
know if the invitation stands under the new dispensation in that
country.

As a result of the extemment order from Mussoorie I spent
about two weeks in Allahabad, and it was during this period that
I got entangled in the Kisan (peasant) movement. That entangle-
ment grew in later years and influenced my mental outlook
greatly. I have sometimes wondered what would have happened
if I had not been externed and had not been in Allahabad just
then with no other engagements. Very probably I would have
been drawn to the kisans anyhow, sooner or later, but the manner
of my going to them would have been different and the effect
on me might also have been different.

Early in June 1920 (so far as I can remember) about two
hundred kisans marched fifty miles from the interior of Partab-
garh district to Allahabad city with the intention of drawing
the attention of the prominent politicians there to their woe-
begone condition. They were led by a man named Ramachandra,
who himself was not a local peasant. I learnt that these kisans
were squatting on the river bank, on one of the Jumna ghats,
and, accompanied by some friends, went to see them. They told
us of the crushing exactions of the taluqadars, of inhuman
treatment, and that their condition had become wholly in-
tolerable. They begged us to accompany them back to make
inquiries as well as to protect them from the vengeance of the
taluqadars who were angry at their having ’come to Allaha-
bad on this mission. They would accept no denial and literally
clung on to us. At last I promised to visit them two days or so
later.

I went there with some colleagues and we spent three days in
the villages far from the railway and even the pucca road. That
visit was a revelation to me. We found the whole countryside
afire with enthusiasm and full of a strange excitement. Enor-
mous gatherings would take place at the briefest notice by word

5* JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

of mouth. One village would communicate with another, and
the second with the third, and so on, and presently whole villages
would empty out, and all over the fields there would be men and
women and children on the march to the meeting-place. Or,
more swiftly still, the cry of Sita Ram — Sita Ra-a-a-a-m — would
fill the air, and ravel far in all directions and be echoed back
from other villages, and then people would come streaming out
or even running as fast as they could. They were in miserable
rags, men and women, but their faces were full of excitement
and their eyes glistened and seemed to expect strange happen-
ings which would, as if by a miracle, put an end to their long
misery.

They showered their affection on us and looked on us with
loving and hopeful eyes, as if we were the bearers of good tidings,
the guides who were to lead them to the promised land. Looking
at them and their misery and overflowing gratitude, I was filled
with shame and sorrow, shame at my own easy-going and com-
fortable life and our petty politics of the city which ignored this
vast multitude of semi-naked sons and daughters of India, sorrow
at the degradation and overwhelming poverty of India. A new
picture of India seemed to rise before me, naked, starving,
crushed, and utterly miserable. And their faith in us, casual
visitors from the distant city, embarrassed me and filled me with
a new responsibility that frightened me.

I listened to their innumerable tales of sorrow, their crushing
and ever-growing burden of rent, illegal exactions, ejectments
from land and mud hut, beatings; surrounded on all sides by
vultures who preyed on them — zamindar’s agents, money-lenders,
police; toiling all day to find that what they produced was not
theirs and their reward was kicks and curses and a hungry
stomach. Many of those who were present were landless people
who had been ejected by the landlords, and had no land or hut
to fall back upon. The land was rich but the burden on it was
very heavy, the holdings were small and there were too many
people after them. Taking advantage of this land hunger the
landlords, unable under the law to enhance their rents be-
yond a certain percentage, charged huge illegal premiums.
The tenant, knowing of no other alternative, borrowed money
from the money-lender and paid the premium, and then, un-
able to pay his debt or even the rent, was ejected and lost all
he had.

This process was an old one and the progressive pauperisation
of the peasantry had been going on for a long time. What had
happened to bnng matters to a head and rouse up the country-

I AM EXTERNED

53

side? Economic conditions, of course, but these conditions were
similar all over Oudh, while the agrarian upheaval of 1930 and
1921 was largely confined to three districts — Partabgarh, Rae
Bareli and Fyzabad. This was partly due to the leadership of a
remarkable person, Ramachandra, Baba Ramachandra as he was
called.

Ramachandra was a man from Maharashtra in western
India and he had been to Fiji as an indentured labourer. On
his return he had gradually drifted to these districts of Oudh
and wandered about reciting Tulsidas’s Ramayana and listening
to tenants’ grievances. He had little education and to some
extent he exploited the tenantry for his own benefit, but he
showed remarkable powers of organisation. He taught the
peasants to meet frequently in sabhas (meetings) to discuss their
own troubles and thus gave them a feeling of solidarity. Occa-
sionally huge mass meetings were held and this produced a sense
of power. Sita-Ram was an old and common cry but he gave it
an almost warlike significance and made it a signal for emer-
gencies as well as a bond between different villages. Fyzabad,
Partabgarh and Rae Bareli are full of the old legends of
Ramachandra and Sita — these districts formed part of the king-
dom of Ayodhya — and the favourite book of the masses is
Tulsidas’s Hindi Ramayana. Many people knew hundreds of
verses from this by heart. A recitation of this book and
appropriate quotations from it was a favourite practice of
Ramachandra. Having organised the peasantry to some extent
he made all manner of promises to them, vague and nebulous
but full of hope for them. He had no programme of any kind
and when he had brought them to a pitch of excitement he tried
to shift the responsibility to others. This led him to bring a
number of peasants to Allahabad to interest people there in the
movement.

Ramachandra continued to take a prominent part in the
agrarian movement for another year and served two or three
sentences in prison, but he turned out later to be a very irres-
ponsible and unreliable person. «

Oudh was a particularly good area for an agrarian agitation.
It was, and is, the land of the taluqadars — the “ Barons of
Oudh ” they call themselves— and the zamindari system at its
worst flourished there. The exactions of the landlords were
becoming unbearable and the number of landless labourers was
growing. There was on the whole only one class of tenant and
this helped united action.

India may be roughly divided into two parts — the zamindari

54 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

area with its big landlords, and the area containing peasant pro-
prietors, but there is a measure of overlapping. The three
provinces of Bengal, Behar, and the United Provmces of Agra
and Oudh, form the zamindari area. The peasant proprietors are
comparatively better off, although even their condition is often

! )itiable. The mass of the peasantry in the Punjab or Gujrat
where there are peasant proprietors) is far better off than the
tenants of the zamindari areas. In the greater part of these
zamindari areas there were many kinds of tenancies— occupancy
tenants, non-occupancy tenants, sub-tenancies, etc. The interests
of various tenants often conflict against each other and this mili-
tates against joint action. In Oudh, however, there were no
occupancy tenants or even life tenants in 1920. There were only
short-term tenants who were continually being ejected in favour
of some one who was willing to pay a higher premium. Because
there was principally one class of tenant, it was easier to organise
them for joint action.

In practice there was no guarantee in Oudh for even the short
term of the contract. A landlord hardly ever gave a receipt for
rent received, and he could always say that the rent had not been
paid and eject the tenant, for whom it was impossible to prove
the contrary. Besides the rent there were an extraordinary num-
ber of illegal exactions. In one taluqa I was told that there had
been as many as fifty different kinds of such exactions. Probably
this number was exaggerated but it is notorious how taluqadars
often make their tenants pay for every special expenditure — a
marriage in the family, cost of the son's education in foreign
countries, a party to the Governor or other high official, a pur-
chase of a car or an elephant. Indeed these exactions have got
special names — motrauna (tax for purchase of motor), hathauna
(tax for purchase of elephant), etc.

It was not surprising therefore that a big agrarian agitation
should develop in Oudh. What was surprising to me then was
that this should have developed quite spontaneously without any
city help or intervention of politicians and the like. The agrarian
movement was entirely separate from the Congress and it had
nothing to do with the non-co-operation that was taking shape.
Or perhaps it will be more correct to say that both these wide-
spread and powerful movements were due to the same funda-
mental causes. The peasantry had of course taken part in
the great hartals that Gandhi ji had proclaimed in 1919 and
later his name was becoming a charm for the man in the
village.

Wnat amazed me still more was our total ignorance in the

I AM EXTERNED

55

cities of this great agrarian movement. No newspaper had con-
tained a line about it ; they were not interested in rural areas. I
realised more than ever how cut off we were from our people and
how we lived and worked and agitated in a little world apart
from them.

IX

WANDERINGS AMONG THE KISANS

I spent three days in the villages, came back to Allahabad, and
then went again. During these brief visits we wandered about a
great deal from village to village, feeding with the peasants, living
with them in their mud huts, talking to them for long hours,
and often addressing meetings, big ana small. We had originally
gone in a light car and the peasants were so keen that hundreds
of them, working overnight, built temporary roads across the
fields so that our car could go right into the interior. Often the
car got stuck and was bodily lifted out by scores of willing hands.
But we had to leave the car eventually and to do most of our
journeying by foot. Everywhere we went we were accompanied
by policemen, C.I.D. men, and a Deputy Collector from Lucknow.
I am afraid we gave them a bad time with our continuous march-
ing across fields and they were quite tired out and fed up with us
and the kisans, The Deputy Collector was a somewhat effeminate
youth from Lucknow and he had turned up in patent leather

ra I He begged us sometimes to restrain our ardour and
It he ultimately dropped out, being unable to keep up
with us.

It was the hottest time of the year, June, just before the mon-
soon. The sun scorched and blinded. I was quite unused to
going out in the sun and ever since my return from England I
had gone to the hills for part of every summer. And now I was
wandering about all day in the open sun with not even a sun-hat,
my head being wrapped in a small towel. So full was I of other
matters that I quite forgot about the heat and it was only on my
return to Allahabad, when I noticed the rich tan I had developed,
that I remembered what I had gone through. I was pleased with
myself for I realised that I could stand the heat with the best
of them and my fear of it was wholly unjustified. I have found
that I can bear both extreme heat and great cold without much
discomfort, and this has stood me in good stead in my work as
well as in my periods in prison. This was no doubt due to my

f meral physical fitness and my habit of taking exercise, a lesson
learnt from my father, who was a bit of an athlete and, almost
to the end of his days, continued his daily exercise. His head be-
came covered with silvery hair, his face was deeply furrowed and
looked old and weary with thought, but the rest of his body, to

WANDERINGS AMONG THE KISANS 57

within a year or two of his death, seemed to be twenty years
younger.

Even before my visit to Partabgarh in June 1920 , 1 had often
passed through villages, stopped there and talked to the peasants.
I had seen them in their scores of thousands on the banks of the
Ganges during the big tnelas and we had taken our Home Rule
propaganda to them. But somehow I had not fully realised what
they were and what they meant to India. Like most of us, I
took them for granted. This realisation came to me during these
Partabgarh visits and ever since then my mental picture of
India always contains this naked, hungry mass. Perhaps there
was some kind of electricity in the air, perhaps I was in a recep-
tive frame of mind and the pictures I saw and the impressions I
gathered were indelibly impressed on my mind.

These peasants took away the shyness from me and taught me
to speak in public. Till then I hardly spoke at a public gathering ;
I was frightened at the prospect, especially if the speaking was to
be done m Hindustani, as it almost always was. But I could not
possibly avoid addressing these peasant gatherings, and how
could I be shy of these poor unsophisticated people? I did not
know the arts of oratory and so I spoke to them, man to man,
and told them what I had in my mind and in my heart. Whether
the gathering consisted of a few persons or of ten thousand or
more I stuck to my conversational and rather personal method
of speaking, and I found that, whatever might be lacking in
it, I could at least go on. I was fluent enough. Perhaps many of
them could not understand a great deal of what I said. My
language or my thought was not simple enough for them. Many
did not hear me when the gathering was very large for my voice
did not carry far. But all this did not matter much to them when
once they had given their confidence and faith to a person.

I went back to Mussoorie to my mother and wife but my mind
was full of the kisans and I was eager to he back. As soon as I
returned I resumed my visits to the villages and watched the
agrarian movement grow in strength. The down-trodden kisan
began to gain a new confidence in himself and \valked straighter
with head up. His fear of the landlords’ agents and the police
lessened, and when there was an ejectment from a holding no
other kisan would make an offer for that land. Physical violence
on the part of the zamindars’ servants and illegal exactions be-
came infrequent, and whenever an instance occurred, it was im-
mediately reported and an attempt at an inquiry was held. This
checked the zamindars’ agents as well as the police. The talu-
qadars were frightened and were on the defensive and the

$8 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

provincial government promised an amendment of the Oudh
Tenancy Law.

The taluqadars and the big zamindars, the lords of the land,
the “ natural leaders of the people ”, as they are proud of calling
themselves, had been the spoilt children of the British Govern-
ment, but that Government had succeeded, by the special educa-
tion and upbringing it provided or failed to provide for them, in
reducing them, as a class, to a state of complete intellectual
impotence. They did nothing at all for their tenantry, such as
landlords in other countries have to some little extent often
done, and became complete parasites on the land and the people.
Their chief activity lay in endeavouring to placate the local
officials, without whose favour they could not exist for long, and
demanding ceaselessly a protection of their special interests and
privileges.

The word ‘ zamindar ’ is rather deceptive, and one is apt to
think that all zamindars are big landlords. In the ryotwan pro-
vinces it means the peasant proprietor. Even in the typical
zamindari provinces, it includes in its fold the relatively few big
landlords, thousands of middle landowners, and hundreds of
thousands of persons who live in extreme poverty and are no
better than tenants. In the United Provinces, so far as I can re-
member, there are a million and a half persons classed as zamin-
dars. Probably over ninety per cent, of these are almost on the
same level as the poorest tenants, and another nine per cent, are
only moderately well off. The biggish landowners are not more
than five thousand in the whole province, and of this number,
about one-tenth might be considered the really big zamindars
and taluqadars. In some instances the bigger tenants are better
off than the destitute petty landowners. Both these poor land-
owners and the middle landlords, though often intellectually
backward, are as a whole a fine body of men and women, and,
with proper education and training, can be made into excellent
citizens. They have taken a considerable part in the nationalist
movement. Not so the taluqadars and the big zamindars, barring
a few notable exceptions. They have not even the virtues of an
aristocracy. As a class they are physically and intellectually
degenerate and have outlived their day; they will continue only
so long as an external power like the [British Government props
them up.

Right through the year 1921 I continued my visits to the rural
areas, but my field of activity grew till it comprised the whole of
the United Provinces. Non-co-operation had begun in earnest
and its message had reached the remotest village. A host of

WANDERINGS AMONG THE KISANS 59

Congress workers in each district went about the rural areas with
the new message to which they often added, rather vaguely, a
removal of kisan grievances. Swaraj was an all-embracing word
to cover everything. Yet the two movements — non-co-operation
and the agrarian — were quite separate, though they overlapped
and influenced each other greatly in our province. As a result of
Congress preaching, litigation went down with a rush and
villages established their panchayats to deal with their disputes*
Especially powerful was the influence of the Congress in favour
of peace, for the new creed of non-violence was stressed wherever
the Congress worker went. This may not have been fully appreci-
ated or understood but it did prevent the peasantry from taking
to violence.

This was no small result. Agrarian upheavals are notoriously
violent, leading to jacqueries , and the peasants of part of Oudh
in those days were desperate and at white heat. A spark would
have lighted a flame. Yet they remained amazingly peaceful.
The only instance of physical violence on a taluqadar that I
remember was when a peasant went up to him as he was sitting
in his own house, surrounded by his friends, and slapped him on
the face on the ground that he was immoral and inconsiderate
to his own wife I

There was violence of another kind later which led to conflicts
with the Government. But this conflict was bound to come, for
the Government could not tolerate this growing power of a
united peasantry. The kisans took to travelling in railway trains
in large numbers without tickets, especially when they had to
attend their periodical big mass meetings which sometimes con-
sisted of sixty or seventy thousand persons. It was difficult to
move them and, unheard of thing, they openly defied the rail-
way authorities, telling them that the old days were gone. At
whose instigation they took to the free mass travelling I do not
know. We had not suggested it to them. We suddenly heard that
they were doing it. Stricter railway control prevented this later.

In the autumn of 1920 (when I was a wav in Calcutta attending
the special session of the Congress) a few k&an leaders were
arrested for some petty offence. They were to be tried in Partab-
garh town but on the day of the trial a huge concourse of
peasants filled the court compound and lined the route to the
gaol where the accused leaders were kept. The magistrate’s nerve
gave way and he postponed the trial to the next day. But the
crowd grew and almost surrounded the gaol. The kisans can
easily carry on for a few days on a handful of parched gram.
Ultimately the kisan leaders were discharged, perhaps after a

60 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

formal trial inside the gaol. I forget how this came about but for
the kisans this was a great triumph and they began to think that
they could always have their way by weight of numbers alone.
To the Government this position was intolerable and soon after
a similar occasion arose and this time it ended differently.

It was at the beginning of January 1921. I had just returned to
Allahabad from the Nagpur Congress when I received a telegram
from Rae Bareli asking me to go there immediately as trouble
was expected. I left the next day. I discovered that some leading
kisans had been arrested some days back and had been lodged in
the local gaol. Remembering their success at Partabgarh and the
tactics they had then adopted, the peasants marched to Rae
Bareli town for a mass demonstration. But this time the Govern-
ment was not going to permit it and additional police and mili-
tary had been collected to stop the kisans. Just outside the town
on the other side of a little river, the main body of the kisans
was stopped. Many of them, however, streamed in from other
directions. On arrival at the station I learnt of this situation and
immediately I proceeded straight to the river where the military
were said to face the peasants. On the way I received a hurriedly
written note from the District Magistrate asking me to go back.
I wrote my reply on the back of it enquiring under what law and
what section he was was asking me to go back and till I heard
from him I proposed to go on. As I reached the river sounds of
firing could be heard from the other side. I was stopped at the
bridge by the military and as I waited there I was suddenly sur-
rounded by large numbers of frightened kisans who had been
hiding in the fields on this side of the river. So I held a meeting
of about a couple of thousand peasants on the spot and tried to
remove their fear and lessen their excitement. It was rather an
unusual situation with firing going on on their brethren within
a stone’s throw across a little stream and the military in evidence
everywhere. But the meeting was quite successful and took away
the edge from the kisans’ fear. The District Magistrate then re-
turned from the firing line and, at his request, I accompanied
him to his house. There he kept me, under some pretext or other,
for over two hours, evidently wanting to keep me away from the
kisans and my colleagues in the city.

We found later that many men had been killed in the firing.
The kisans had refused to disperse or to go back but otherwise
they had been perfectly peaceful. I am quite sure that if I or
some one else they trusted had been there and had asked them to
do so they would have dispersed. They refused to take their
orders from men they did not trust. Some one actually suggested

WANDERINGS AMONG THE KISANS 6l

to the Magistrate to wait for me a little but he refused. He could
not permit an agitator to succeed where he had failed. That is
not the way of foreign governments depending on prestige.

Firing on kisans took place on two occasions in Rae Bareli
district about that time and then began, what was much worse, a
reign of terror for every prominent ktsan worker or member of a
panchayat . Government had decided to crush the movement.
Hand-spinning on the charkhct was then spreading among the
peasantry at the instance of the Congress. A charkha therefore
became the symbol of sedition and its owner got into trouble,
the charkha itself being often burnt. Thus the Government tried
to crush by hundreds of arrests and other methods both the
agrarian and the Congress movements in the rural areas of Rae
Bareli and Partabgarh. Most of the principal workers were com-
mon to the two movements.

A little later, in the year 1921, Fyzabad district had its dose of
widespread repression. The trouble started there in a peculiar
way. The peasants of some villages went and looted the property
of a taluqadar. It transpired subsequently that they had been in-
cited to do so by the servants of another zamindar who had some
kind of feud with the taluqadar. The poor ignorant peasants
were actually told that it was the wish of Mahatma Gandhi that
they should loot and they willingly agreed to carry out this be-
hest, shouting “ Mahatma Gandhi ki jai ” in the process.

I was very angry when I heard of this and within a day or two
of the occurrence I was on the spot, somewhere near Akbarpur
in Fyzabad district. On arrival I called a meeting for the same
day and within a few hours five or six thousand persons had
collected from numerous villages within a radius of ten miles. I
spoke harshly to them for the shame they had brought on them-
selves and our cause and said that the guilty persons must confess
publicly. (I was full in those days of what I conceived to be the
spirit of Gandhiji’s Satyagraha). I called upon those who had par-
ticipated in the looting to raise their hands, and strange to say,
there, in the presence of numerous police officials, about two
dozen hands went up. That meant certain trouble for them.

When I spoke to many of them privately later and heard their
artless story of how they had been misled, I felt very sorry for
them and I began to regret having exposed these foolish and
simple folk to long terms of imprisonment. But the people who
suffered were not just two or three dozen. The chance was too
good to be lost and full advantage wa9 taken of the occasion to
crush the agrarian movement in that district. Over a thousand
arrests were made, and the district gaol was overcrowded, and the

62 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

trial went on for the best part of a year. Many died in prison
during the trial. Many others received long sentences and in later
years, when I went to prison, I came across some of them, boys
and young men, spending their youth in prison.

The Indian kisans have little staying power, little energy to
resist for long. Famines and epidemics come and slay them in
their millions. It was surprising that they had shown for a whole
year great powers of resistance against the combined pressure of
government and landlord. But they began to weary a little and
the determined attack of the Government on their movement
ultimately broke its spirit for the time being. But it continued
still in a lower key. There were not such vast demonstrations
as before, but most villages contained old workers who had not
been terrorised and who carried on the work in a small way. All
this, it must be remembered, was prior to the gaol-going which
the Congress started at the end of 1921. Even in this the kisans
took a considerable part, in spite of all they had suffered during
the previous year.

Frightened by the agrarian movement, the Government had
hurried on with tenancy legislation. This promised some im-
provement in the lot of the kisan but the measure was toned
down when it was found that the movement was already under
control. The principal change it affected was to give a life ten-
ancy to the kisan in Oudh. This sounded attractive to him but,
as he has found out subsequently, his lot is in no way better.

Agrarian troubles continued to crop up in Oudh but on a
smaller scale. The world depression which began in 1929, how-
ever, again created a great crisis owing to the fall in prices.

X

NON-CO-OPERATION

I have dealt with the Oudh agrarian upheaval in some little
detail because it lifted the veil and disclosed a fundamental
aspect of the Indian problem to me to which nationalists had
paid hardly any attention. Agrarian troubles are frequently
taking place in various parts of India, symptoms of a deep-
seated unrest, and the kisan agitation in certain parts of Ouah
in 1920 and 1921 was but one of them, though it was, in its own
way, a remarkable and a revealing one. In its origin it was en-
tirely unconnected with politics or politicians, and right through
its course the influence of outsiders and politicians was of the
slightest. From an all-India point of view, however, it was a
local affair and very little attention was paid to it. Even the
newspapers of the United Provinces largely ignored it. For their
editors and the majority of their town-dwelling readers, the
doings of mobs of semi-naked peasants had no real political or
other significance.

The Punjab and the Khilafat wrongs were the topics of the
day, and non-co-operation, which was to attempt to bring about a
righting of these wrongs, was the all-absorbing subject. The
larger issue of national freedom or Swaraj was for the moment
not stressed. Gandhiji disliked vague and big objectives, he
always preferred concentrating on something specific and defi-
nite. Nevertheless, Swaraj was very much in the air and in
people's thoughts, and frequent reference was made to it in
innumerable gatherings and conferences.

In the autumn of 1920 a special session of the Congress met
at Calcutta to consider what steps should be taken and, in par-
ticular, to decide about non-co-operation. Lala Lajpat Rai, freshly
back from the United States after a long absence from home,
was the President. He disliked the new-fangled proposal of non-
co-operation and opposed it. He was usually considered an
Extremist in Indian politics, but his general outlook was defi-
nitely constitutional and moderate. Force of circumstances and
not choice or convictions had made him an ally of Lokamanya
Tilak and other Extremists in the early days of the century.
But he had a social and economic outlook, strengthened by his
long residence abroad, and this gave him a broader vision than
that of most Indian leaders.

63

64 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Wilfrid Scawen Blunt in his “ Diaries ” describes an interview
he had (about 1909) with Gokhale and Lalaji. He is very hard
on both, considering them far too cautious and afraid of facing
realities. And yet Lalaji faced them far more than most Indian
leaden. Blunt s impressions make us realise how low was the
temper of our politics and our leaders at that time, and how
an able and experienced foreigner was struck by them. But a
decade had made a great difference to that temper.

Lala Lajpat Rai was not alone in his opposition; he had a
great and impressive company with him. Indeed, almost the
entire Old Guard of the Congress opposed Gandhi ji’s resolution
of non-co-operation. Mr. C. R. Das led the opposition, not be-
cause he disapproved of the spirit behind the resolution, for he
was prepared to go as far or even farther, but chiefly because
he objected to the boycott of the new legislatures.

Of the prominent leaders of the older generation my father
was the only one to take his stand by Gandhiji at that time. It
was no easy matter for him to do so. He sensed and was much
influenced by the objections that had led most of his old col-
leagues to oppose. He hesitated, as they did, to take a novel
step towards an unknown region, where it was hardly possible
to Keep one’s old bearings. Yet he was inevitably drawn to some
form of effective action, and the proposal did embody definite
action, though not exactly on the lines of his thought. It took
him a long time to make up his mind. He had long talks with
Gandhiji and Mr. C. R. Das. Mr. Das and he were thrown a
great deal together just then as they were both appearing, on
opposite sides, in a big mofussil case. They looked at the problem
from much the same point of view and there was very little
difference between them even as regards the conclusion. Yet
that little difference was just enough to keep them on either side
of the main resolution at the Special Congress. Three months
later they met again at the Nagpur Congress, and from then
onwards they pulled together, ever coming nearer to each
other.

I saw very little of father in those days before the Calcutta
Special Congress. But whenever I met him, I noticed how he
was continually grappling with this problem. Quite apart from
the national aspect of the question there was the personal aspect.
Non-co-operation meant his withdrawing from his legal practice;
it meant a total break with his past lire and a new fashioning
of it— not an easy matter when one is on the eve of one’s sixtieth
birthday. It was a break from old political colleagues, from his
profession, from the social life to which he had grown accus-

NON-CO-OPERATION

65

tomed, and a giving up of many an expensive habit which he
had grown into. For the financial aspect of the question was
not an unimportant one, and it was obvious that he would have
to reduce his standard of living if his income from his pro-
fession vanished.

But his reason, his strong sense of self-respect, and his pride,
all led him step by step to throw in his lot wholeheartedly with
the new movement. The accumulated anger with which a series
of events, duminating in the Punjab tragedy and its aftermath,
filled him; the sense of utter wrong-doing and injustice, the
bitterness of national humiliation, had to find some way out.
But he was not to be swept away by a wave of enthusiasm. It
was only when his reason, backed by the trained mind of a
lawyer, nad weighed all the pros and cons that he took the final
decision and joined Gandhiji in his campaign.

He was attracted by Gandhiji as a man, and that no doubt was
a factor which influenced him. Nothing could have made him
a close associate of a person he disliked, for he was always strong
in his likes and dislikes. But it was a strange combination — the
saint, the stoic, the man of religion, one who went through life
rejecting what it offers in the way of sensation and physical
pleasure, and one who had been a bit of an epicure, who
accepted life and welcomed and enjoyed its many sensations,
and cared little for what may come in the hereafter. In the
language of psychoanalysis it was a meeting of an introvert with
an extrovert. Yet there were common bonds, common in-
terests, which drew the two together and kept up, even when,
in later years, their politics diverged, a close friendship between
them.

Walter Pater, in one of his books, mentions how the saint and
the epicure, starting from opposed points, travelling different
paths, one with a religious temper, the other opposed to it, and
yet both with an outlook which, in its stress and earnestness, is
very unlike any lower development of temper, often understand
eacn other better than either would understand the mere man
of the world — and sometimes they actually touch.

This Special Session at Calcutta began the Gandhi era in Con-
gress politics which has lasted since then, except for a period
in the twenties when he kept in the background and allowed the
Swaraj Party, under the leadership of Deshbandhu C. R. Das
and my father, to fill the picture. The whole look of the Con-
gress cnanged; European clothes vanished and soon only khadi
was to be seen ; a new class of delegate, chiefly drawn from the
lower middle classes became the type of Congressman; the

66 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

language used became increasingly Hindustani, or sometimes
the language of the province where the session was held, as
many of the delegates did not understand English, and there
was also a growing prejudice against using a foreign language
in our national wont ; and a new life and enthusiasm and earnest-
ness became evident in Congress gatherings.

After the Congress was over Gandhiji paid a visit to the
veteran editor of the Amrit Bazaar Patnka, Syt Motilal Ghose,
who was lying on his death-bed. I accompanied him. Motilal
Babu blessed Gandhiji and his movement, and he added that,
as for himself, he was going away to other regions, and wherever
these might be, he had one great satisfaction— he would be some-
where where the British Empire did not exist. At last he would
be beyond the reach of this Empire 1

On our wav back from the Calcutta Special Congress I accom-
panied Gandhiji to Santiniketan on a visit to Rabindra Nath
Tagore and his most lovable elder brother ‘ Boro Dada ’. We
spent some days there, and I remember C. F. Andrews giving
me some books which interested and influenced me greatly.
They dealt with the economic aspects of imperialism in Africa.
One of these books — Morell’s Black Man's Burden — moved me
greatly.

About this time or a little later, C. F. Andrews wrote a pam-
phlet advocating independence for India. I think it was called
Independence— the Immediate Need. This was a brilliant essay
based on some of Seeley’s writings on India, and it seemed to
me not only to make out an unanswerable case for independence
but also to mirror the inmost recesses of our hearts. The deep
urge that moved us and our half-formed desires seemed to take
clear shape in his simple and earnest language. There was no
economic background or socialism in what he had written; it
was nationalism pure and simple, the feeling of the humiliation
of India and a fierce desire to be rid of it and to put
an end to our continuing degradation. It was wonderful that
C. F. Andrews, a foreigner and one belonging to the dominant
race in India, should echo that cry of our inmost being. Non-
co-operation was essentially, as Seeley had said long ago, “ the
notion that it was shameful to assist the foreigner in maintain-
ing his domination ”. And Andrews had written that " the only
way of self-recovery was through some vital upheaval from
within. The explosive force needed for such an upheaval must
be generated within the soul of India itself. It could not come
through loans and gifts and grants and concessions and pro-
clamations from without. It must come from within. . . .

NON-CO-OPERATION 67

Therefore, it was with the intense joy of mental and spiritual
deliverance from an intolerable burden, that I watched the
actual outbreak of such an inner explosive force, as that which
actually occurred when Mahatma Gandhi spoke to the heart
of India the mantram — 'Be free I Be slaves no morel ’ and
the heart of India responded. In a sudden movement her
fetters began to be loosened, and the pathway of freedom
was opened.”

The next three months witnessed the advancing tide of non-
co-operation all over the country. The appeal for a boycott of
the elections to the new legislatures was remarkably successful.
It did not and could not prevent everybody from going to these
councils and thus keep the seats vacant. Even a handful of
voters could elect or there might be an unopposed election. But
the great majority of voters abstained from voting, and all who
cared for the vehemently expressed sense of the country re-
frained from standing as candidates. Sir Valentine Chirol
happened to be in Allahabad on the election day, and he made
a round of the polling booths. He returned amazed at the
efficiency of the boycott. At one rural polling station, about
fifteen miles from Allahabad city, he found that not a single
voter had appeared. He gives an account of his experiences in
one of his books on India.

The wisdom of this boycott had been questioned by Mr. C. R.
Das and others at the Calcutta session, but they stood by the
Congress decision. The elections being over, this point of dif-
ference was removed, and the next full session of the Congress
at Nagpur in December 1920 saw a reunion of many of the old
Congress leaders on the plank of non-co-operation. The very
success of the movement had convinced many a doubter and
waverer.

A few old leaders, however, dropped out of the Congress after
Calcutta, and among these a popular and well-known figure was
that of Mr. M. A. Jinnah. Sarojini Naidu had called him the
"Ambassador of Hindu-Muslim unity”, aqd he had been
largely responsible in the past for bringing the Moslem League
nearer to the Congress. But the new developments in the Con-
gress — non-co-operation and the new constitution which made it
more of a popular and mass organization— were thoroughly dis-
approved of by him. He disagreed on political grounds, but it
was not politics in the main that kept him away. There were
still many people in the Congress who were politically even less
advanced than he was. But temperamentally he did not fit in
at all with the new Congress. He felt completely out of his

68 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

element in the khadi-clad crowd demanding speeches in Hindu-
stani. The enthusiasm of the people outside struck him as
mob-hysteria. There was as much difference between him and
the Indian masses as between Savile Row and Bond Street and
the Indian village with its mud-huts. He suggested once
privately that only matriculates should be taken into the Con-
gress. I do not know if he was serious in making this remarkable
suggestion, but it was in harmony with his general outlook. So
he drifted away from the Congress and became a rather solitary
figure in Indian politics. Later, unhappily, the old Ambassador
of Unity associated himself with the most reactionary elements
in Muslim communalism.

The Moderates or Liberals had, of course, nothing to do with
the Congress. They not only kept away from it; they merged
themselves in the Government, became ministers and high
officials under the new scheme, and helped in fighting non-
co-operation and the Congress. They had obtained almost what
they desired, some reforms had been granted, and so there was
no need for them to agitate. While the country was seething
with excitement and becoming more and more revolutionary,
they became frankly counter-revolutionary, a part of the Govern-
ment itself. They were completely cut off from the people and
developed a habit, which has persisted since, of looking at prob-
lems from the official point of view. They ceased to be a party
in any real sense and became a small number of individuals
dotted about in a few big cities. Mr. Srinivasa Sastri became an
Imperial Envoy, visiting, at the instance of the British Govern-
ment, various British dominions as well as the United States of
America, and strongly criticising the Congress and his own
countrymen for the struggle they were carrying on against that
Government.

And yet the Liberals were far from happy. It is not a pleasant
experience to be cut off from one’s own people, to sense hostility
even though one may not see it or hear it. A mass upheaval is
not kind to the non-conformists, though Gandhiji’s repeated
warnings made non-co-operation far milder and gentler to its
opponents than it otherwise would have been. But even so, the
very atmosphere stifled those who opposed the movement, just
as it invigorated and filled with life and energy those who sup-
ported it. Mass upheavals and real revolutionary movements
always have this double effect: they encourage and bring out
the personality of those who constitute the masses or side with
them, and at the same time they suppress psychologically and
stifle those who differ from them.

NONCO-OPERATION

69

This was the reason why some people complained that non-
co-operation was intolerant and tended to introduce a dead
uniformity of opinion and action. There was truth in this
complaint, but the truth lay in this, that noncocperation was
a mass movement, and it was led by a man of commanding
personality who inspired devotion in India’s millions. A more
vital truth, however, lay in its effect on the masses. There was a
tremendous feeling of release there, a throwing-off of a great
burden, a new sense of freedom. The fear that had crushed
them retired into the background, and they straightened their
backs and raised their heads. Even in remote bazaars the
common folk talked of the Congress and Swaraj (for the Nagpur
Congress had finally made Swaraj the goal), and what had hap-
pened in the Punjab, and the Khilafat— but the word ‘ Khilafat ’
bore a strange meaning in most of the rural areas. People
thought it came from khilaf, an Urdu word meaning 4 against ’
or 4 opposed to ’, and so they took it to mean : opposed to Govern-
ment! They discussed, of course, especially their own particular
economic grievances. Innumerable meetings and conferences
added greatly to their political education.

Many of us who worked for the Congress programme lived
in a kind of intoxication during the year 1921. We were full of
excitement and optimism and a buoyant enthusiasm. We sensed
the happiness of a person crusading for a cause. We were not
troubled with doubts or hesitation ; our path seemed to lie clear
in front of us and we marched ahead, lifted up by the en-
thusiasm of others, and helping to push on others. We worked
hard, harder than we had ever done before, for we knew
that the conflict with the Government would come soon,
and we wanted to do as much as possible before we were
removed.

Above all, we had a sense of freedom and a pride in that free-
dom. The old feeling of oppression and frustration was
completely gone. There was no more whispering, no round-
about legal phraseology to avoid getting into trouble with the
authorities. We said what we felt and shouted it out from the
house-tops. What did we care for the consequences? Prison? We
looked forward to it ; that would help our cause still further. The
innumerable spies and secret-service men who used to surround
us and follow us about became rather pitiable individuals as there
was nothing secret for them to discover. All our cards were
always on the table.

We had not only a feeling of satisfaction at doing effective
political work which was changing the face of India before our

70 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

eyes and, as we believed, bringing Indian freedom very near,
but also an agreeable sense of moral superiority over our
opponents, both in regard to our goal and our •methods. We
were proud of our leader and of the unique method he had
evolved, and often we indulged in fits of self-righteousness. In
the midst of strife, and while we ourselves encouraged that
strife, we had a sense of inner peace.

As our moral grew, that of the Government went down. They
did not understand what was happening; it seemed that the
old world they knew in India was toppling down. There was a
new aggressive spirit abroad and self-reliance and fearlessness,
and the great prop of British rule in India— prestige — was
visibly wilting. Repression in a small way only strengthened
the movement, and the Government hesitated for long before
it would take action against the big leaders. It did not know
what the consequences might be. Was the Indian Army
reliable? Would the police carry out orders? As Lord Reading,
the Viceroy, said in December 1921, they were “puzzled and
perplexed ”

An interesting circular was sent confidentially by the
U.P. Government to its district officers in the summer of
1921. This circular, which was published later in a newspaper,
stated with sorrow that the “initiative” was always with the
“enemy”, meaning the Congress, and this was an unfortu-
nate state of affairs. Various methods were then suggested to
regain the initiative, among them being the starting of those
ludicrous bodies, the “ Aman Sabhas ”. It was believed that this
particular method of combating non-co-operation was adopted
at the suggestion of the Liberal Ministers)

The nerves of many a British official began to give way. The
strain was great. There was this ever-growing opposition and
spirit of defiance which overshadowed official India like a vast
monsoon cloud, and yet because of its peaceful methods it
offered no handle, no grip, no opportunity for forcible sup-
pression. The average Englishman did not believe in the bona-
fides of non-violence ; he thought that all this was camouflage,
a cloak to cover some vast secret design which would burst out
in violent upheaval one day. Nurtured from childhood in the
wide-spread belief that the East is a mysterious place, and in its
bazaars and narrow lanes secret conspiracies are being continu-
ally hatched, the Englishman can seldom think straight on
matters relating to these lands of supposed mystery. He never
makes an attempt to understand that somewhat obvious and
very unmysterious person the Easterner. He keeps well away

NON-CO-OPERATION

7 *

from him, gets his ideas about him from tales abounding in spies
and secret societies, and then allows his imagination to run riot.
So it was in the Punjab early in April 1919 when a sudden fear
overwhelmed the authorities and the English people generally,
made them see danger everywhere, a widespread rising, a second
mutiny with its frightful massacres, and, in a blind, instinctive
attempt at self-preservation at any cost, led them to that
frightfulness, of which Jallianwala and the Crawling Lane of
Amritsar have become symbols and bywords.

The year 1921 was a year of great tension, and there was much
to irritate and annoy and unnerve the official. What was actu-
ally happening was bad enough, but what was imagined was
far worse. I remember an instance which illustrates this riot of
the imagination. My sister Swarup’s wedding, which was taking
place at Allahabad, was fixed for the 10th May, 1921, the actual
date having been calculated, as usual on such occasions, by a
reference to the Samvat calendar, and an auspicious day chosen.
Gandhiji and a number of leading Congressmen, including the
Ali brothers, had been invited, and to suit their convenience,
a meeting of the Congress Working Committee was fixed at
Allahabad about that time. The local Congressmen wanted to
profit by the presence of famous leaders from outside, and so
they organised a district conference on a big scale, expect-
ing a large number of peasants from the surrounding rural
areas.

There was a great deal of bustle and excitement in Allahabad
on account of these political gatherings. This had a remarkable
effect on the nerves of some people. I learnt one day through a
barrister friend that many English people were thoroughly upset
and expected some sudden upheaval in the city. They distrusted
their Indian servants, and carried about revolvers in their

E ockets. It was even said privately that the Allahabad Fort was
ept in readiness for the English colony to retire there in case
of need. I was much surprised and could not make out why
any one should contemplate the possibility of a rising in the
sleepy and peaceful city of Allahabad just when the very aposde
of non-violence was going to visit us. Oh, it was said. May 10th
(the day accidentally fixed for my sister’s marriage) was the anni-
versary of the outbreak of the Mutiny at Meerut in 1857 and
this was going to be celebrated 1
Owing to the prominence given to the Khilafat movement in
1921 a urge number of Moulvies and Muslim religious leaders
took a prominent part in the political struggle. They gave a
definite religious tinge to the movement, and Muslims generally

72 JAWAHAKLAL NEHRU

were greatly influenced by it. Many a Westernised Muslim, who
was not of a particularly religious turn of mind, began to grow
a beard and otherwise conform to the tenets of Orthodoxy. The
influence and prestige of the Moulvies, which had been gradu-
ally declining owing to new ideas and a progressive Westernisa-
tion, began to grow again and dominate the Muslim community.
The Ali brothers, themselves of a religious turn of mind, helped
in this process, and so did Gandhiji, who paid the greatest regard
to the Moulvies and the Maulanas.

Gandhiji, indeed, was continually laying stress on the religious
and spiritual side of the movement. His religion was not dog-
matic, but it did mean a definitely religious outlook on life, and
the whole movement was strongly influenced by this and took
on a revivalist character so far as the masses were concerned.
The great majority of Congress workers naturally tried to model
themselves after their leader and even repeated his language.
And yet Gandhiji’s leading colleagues in the Working Com-
mittee— my father, Deshbandhu Das, Lala Lajpat Rai, and
others — were not men of religion in the ordinary sense of the
word, and they considered political problems on the political
plane only. In their public utterances they did not bring in
religion. But whatever they said had far less influence than the
force of their personal example — had they not given up a great
deal that the world values and taken to simpler ways of living?
This in itself was taken as a sign of religion and helped in
spreading the atmosphere of revivalism.

I used to be troubled sometimes at the growth of this religious
element in our politics, both on the Hindu and the Muslim side.
I did not like it at all. Much that Moulvies and Maulanas and
Swamis and the like said in their public addresses seemed to me
most unfortunate. Their history and sociology and economics
appeared to me all wrong, and the religious twist that was given
to everything prevented all clear thinking. Even some of
Gandhiji’s phrases sometimes jarred upon me — thus his frequent
reference to Rama Raj as a golden age which was to return. But
I was powerless to intervene, and I consoled myself with the
thought that Gandhiji used the words because they were well
known and understood by the masses. He had an amazing knack
of reaching the heart of the people.

But I did not worry myself much over these matters. 1 was
too full of my work and the progress of our movement to care
for such trifles, as I thought at the time they were. A vast move-
ment had all sorts and kinds of people in it, and so long as our
main direction was correct, a few eddies and backwaters did not

NON-CO-OPERATION

73

matter. Aa for Gandhiji himself, he was a very difficult person
to understand, sometimes his language was almost incom-
prehensible to an average modem. But we felt that we knew
him quite well enough to realise that he was a great and unique
man and a glorious leader, and having put our faith in him we
gave him an almost blank cheque, for the time being at least.
Often we discussed his fads and peculiarities among ourselves
and said, half-humorously, that when Swaraj came these fads
must not be encouraged.

Many of us, however, were too much under his influence in
political and other matters to remain wholly immune even in
the sphere of religion. Where a direct attack might not have
succeeded, many an indirect approach went a long way to under-
mine the defences. The outward ways of religion did not appeal
to me, and above all I disliked the exploitation of the people by
the so-called men of religion, but still I toned down towards it.
I came nearer to a religious frame of mind in 1921 than at any
other time since my early boyhood. Even so I did not come very
near.

What I admired was the moral and 'ethical side of our
movement and of satyagraha. I did not give an absolute
allegiance to the doctrine of non-violence or accept it for ever,
but it attracted me more and more, and the belief grew upon
me that, situated as we were in India and with our background
and traditions, it was the right policy for us. The spiritualisation
of politics, using the word not in its narrow religious sense,
seemed to me a fine idea. A worthy end should have worthy
means leading up to it. That seemed not only a good ethical
doctrine but sound, practical politics, for the means that are not
good often defeat the end in view and raise new problems and
difficulties. And then it seemed so unbecoming, so degrading
to the self-respect of an individual or a nation to submit to such
means, to go through the mire. How can one escape being sullied
by it? How can we march ahead swiftly and with dignity if we
stoop or crawl?

Such were my thoughts then. And the non-co-operation move-
ment offered me what I wanted — the goal of national freedom
and (as I thought) the ending of the exploitation of the under-
dog, and the means which satisfied my moral sense and gave me
a sense of personal freedom. So great was this personal satis-
faction that even a possibility of failure did not count for much,
for such failure could only be temporary. I did not understand
or feel drawn to the metaphysical part of the Bhagavad Gita,
but I liked to read the verses— recited every evening in Gandhiji’s

74 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

ashram prayers — which say what a man should be like: Cain
of purpose, serene and unmoved, doing his job and not carinj;
overmuch for the result of his action. Not being very calm o. •
detached myself, I suppose, this ideal appealed to me all thi
more.

XI

NINETEEN TWENTY-ONE AND THE FIRST
IMPRISONMENT

Nineteen twenty-one was an extraordinary year for us. There
was a strange mixture of nationalism and politics and religion
and mysticism and fanaticism. Behind all this was agrarian
trouble and, in the big cities, a rising working-class movement.
Nationalism and a vague but intense country-wide idealism
sought to bring together all these various, and sometimes mutu-
ally contradictory, discontents, and succeeded to a remarkable
degree. And yet this nationalism itself was a composite force,
and behind it could be distinguished a Hindu nationalism, a
Muslim nationalism partly looking beyond the frontiers of
India, and, what was more in consonance with the spirit of the
times, an Indian nationalism. For the time being they over-
lapped and all pulled together. It was Hindu-Musalman hi Jai
everywhere. It was remarkable how Gandhiji seemed to cast a
spell on all classes and groups of people and drew them into
one motley crowd struggling in one direction. He became, in-
deed (to use a phrase which has been applied to another leader),
“ a symbolic expression of the confused desires of the people ”.

Even more remarkable was the fact that these desires and
passions were relatively free from hatred of the alien rulers
against whom they were directed. Nationalism is essentially an
anti-feeling, and it feeds and fattens on hatred and anger against
other national groups, and especially against the foreign rulers
of a subject country. There was certainly this hatred and anger
in India in 1921 against the British but, in comparison with
other countries similarly situated, it was extraordinarily little.
Undoubtedly this was due to Gandhiji’s insistence on the impli-
cations of non-violence. It was also due to the feeling of release
and power that came to the whole country with the inaugura-
tion of the movement and the widespread belief in success in
the near future. Why be angry and full of hate when we were
doing so well and were likely to win through soon? We felt that
we could afford to be generous.

We were not so generous in our hearts, though our actions
were circumspect and proper, towards the handful of our own
countrymen who took sides against us and opposed the national
movement. It was not a question of hatred or anger, for they

75

76 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

carried no weight whatever and we could ignore them. But deep
within us was contempt for their weakness and opportunism and
betrayal of national honour and self-respect.

So we went on, vaguely but intensely, the exhilaration of
action holding us in its grip. But about our goal there was an
entire absence of clear thinking. It seems surprising now, how
completely we ignored the theoretical aspects, the philosophy of
our movement as well as the definite objective that we should
have. Of course we all grew eloquent about Swaraj, but each one
of us probably interpreted the word in his or her own way. To
most of the younger men it meant political independence, or
something like it, and a democratic form of government, and
we said so in our public utterances. Many of us also thought
that inevitably this would result in a lessening of the burdens
that crushed the workers and the peasantry. But it was obvious
that to most of our leaders Swaraj meant something much less
than independence. Gandhiji was delightfully vague on the
subject, and he did not encourage clear thinking about it either.
But he always spoke, vaguely but definitely, in terms of the
under-dog, and this brought great comfort to many of us,
although, at the same time, he was full of assurances to the top-
dog also. Gandhiji’s stress was never on the intellectual approach
to a problem but on character and piety. He did succeed amaz-
ingly in giving backbone and character to the Indian people.
There were many, however, who developed neither much back-
bone nor character, but who imagined that a limp body and a
flabby look might be the outward semblance of piety.

It was this extraordinary stiffening-up of the masses that filled
us with confidence. A demoralized, backward, and broken-up
people suddenly straightened their backs and lifted their heads
and took part in disciplined, joint action on a country-wide scale.
This action itself, we felt, would give irresistable power to the
masses. We ignored the necessity of thought behind the action;
we forgot that without a conscious ideology and objective the
energy and enthusiasm of the masses must end largely in smoke.
To some extent the revivalist element in our movement carried
us on ; a feeling that non-violence as conceived for political or
economic movements or for righting wrongs was a new message
which our people were destined to give to the world. We be-
came victims to the curious illusion of all peoples and all nations
that in some way they are a chosen race. Non-violence was the
moral equivalent of war and of all violent struggle. It was not
merely an ethical alternative, but it was effective also. Few of
us, I think, accepted Gandhiji’s old ideas about machinery

THE FIRST IMPRISONMENT 77

and modem civilization. We thought that even he looked upon
them as utopian and as largely inapplicable to modem con-
ditions. Certainly most of us were not prepared to reject the
achievements of modem civilization, although we may have
felt that some variation to suit Indian conditions was possible.
Personally, I have always felt attracted towards big machinery
and fast travelling. Still there can be no doubt that Gandhiji’s
ideology influenced many people and made them critical of the
machine and all its consequences. So, while some looked to the
future, others looked back to the past. And, curiously, both felt
that the joint action they were indulging in was worth while,
and this made it easy to bear sacrifice and face self-denial.

I became wholly absorbed and wrapt in the movement, and
large numbers of other people did likewise. I gave up all my
other associations and contacts, old friends, books, even news-
papers, except in so far as they dealt with the work in hand.
I had kept up till then some reading of current books and had
tried to follow the developments of world affairs. But there
was no time for this now. In spite of the strength of my family
bonds, I almost forgot my family, my wife, my daughter. It
was only long afterwards that I realised what a burden and a
trial I must have been to them in those days, and what amazing
patience and tolerance my wife had shown towards me. I lived
in offices and committee meetings and crowds. “Go to the
villages ” was the slogan, and we trudged many a mile across
fields and visited distant villages and addressed peasant meetings.
I experienced the thrill of mass-feeling, the power of influencing
the mass. I began to understand a little the psychology of
the crowd, the difference between the city masses and the
peasantry, and I felt at home in the dust and discomfort, the
pushing and jostling of large gatherings, though their want of
discipline often irritated me. Since those days I have sometimes
had to face hostile and angry crowds, worked up to a state when
a spark would light a flame, and I found that that early ex-
perience and the confidence it begot in me sfood me in good
stead. Always I went straight to the crowd and trusted it, and
so far I have always had courtesy and appreciation from it, even
though there was no agreement. But crowds are fickle, and the
future may have different experiences in store for me.

I took to the crowd and the crowd took to me, and yet I never
lost myself in it; always I felt apart from it. From my separate
mental perch I looked at it critically, and I never ceased to
wonder how I, who was so different in every way from those
thousands who surrounded me, different in habits, in desires,

78 JAWAHAKLAL NEHRU

in mental and spiritual outlook, how I had managed to rain
goodwill and a measure of confidence from these people. Was
it because they took me for something other than I was?
Would they bear with me when they knew me better? Was I
gaining their goodwill under false pretences? I tried to be frank
and straightforward to them; I even spoke harshly to them
sometimes and criticised many of their pet beliefs and customs,
but still they put up with me. And yet I could not get rid of
the idea that their affection was meant not for me as I was, but
for some fanciful image of me that they had formed. How long
could that false image endure? And why should it be allowed
to endure? And when it fell down and they saw the reality,
what then?

I am vain enough in many ways, but there could be no question
of vanity with these crowds of simple folk. There was no posing
about them, no vulgarity, as in the case of many of us of the
middle classes who consider ourselves their betters. They were
dull certainly, uninteresting individually, but in the mass they
produced a feeling of overwhelming pity and a sense of ever*
impending tragedy.

Very different were our conferences where our chosen workers,
ladumsi| myself, performed on the platform. There was suffi-
cient posing there and no lack of vulgarity in our flamboyant
addresses. All of us must have been to some extent guilty of
this, but some of the minor Khilafat leaders probably led the
rest. It is not easy to behave naturally on a platform before
a large audience, and few of us had previous experience of such
publicity. So we tried to look as, we imagined, leaders should
took, thoughtful and serious, with no trace of levity or frivolity.
When we walked or talked or smiled we were conscious of
thousands of eyes staring at us and we reacted accordingly. Our
speeches were often very eloquent but, equally often, singularly
pointless. It is difficult to see oneself as others see one. And so,
unable to criticise myself, I took to watching carefully the ways
of others, and I found considerable amusement in this occupa-
tion. And then the terrible thought would strike me that I might
perhaps appear equally ludicrous to others.

. Right through the year 1921 individual Congress workers were
being arrested and sentenced, but there were no mass arrests.
The Ali Brothers had received long sentences for inciting the
Indian Army to disaffection. Their words, for which they had
been sentenced,' were repeated at hundreds of platforms by
thousands of persons. I was threatened in the summer with
proceedings for sedition because of some speeches I had de-

THE FIRST IMPRISONMENT 79

livered. No such step, however, was taken then. The end of the
year brought matters to a head. The Prince of Wales was
coming to India, and the Congress had proclaimed a boycott
of all the functions in connection with his visit. Towards the
end of November the Congress volunteers in Bengal were de-
clared illegal and this was followed by a similar declaration for
the United Provinces. Deshbandhu Das gave a stirring message
to Bengal : " I feel the handcuffs on my wrists and the weight
of iron chains on my body. It is the agony of bondage. The
whole of India is a vast prison. The work of the Congress must
be carried on. What matters it whether I am taken or left?
What matters it whether I am dead or alive? ” In the U.P. we
took up the challenge and not only announced that our volun-
teer organisation would continue to function, but published lists
of names of volunteers in the daily newspapers. The first list
was headed by my father’s name. He was not a volunteer but,
simply for the purpose of defying the Government order, he
joined and gave his name. Early in December, a few days before
the Prince came to our province, mass arrests began.

We knew that matters had at last come to a head; the inevit-
able conflict between the Congress and the Government was
about to break out. Prison was still an unknown place, the idea
of going there still a novelty. I was sitting rather late one day
in the Congress office at Allahabad trying to clear up arrears
of work. An excited clerk told me that the police had come
with a search warrant and were surrounding the office building.
I was, of course, a little excited also, for it was my first experience
of the kind, but the desire to show off was strong, the wish to
appear perfectly cool and collected, unaffected by the comings
and goings of the police. So I asked a clerk to accompany the
police officer in his search round the office rooms, and insisted
on the rest of the staff carrying on their usual work and ignoring
the police. A little later a friend and a colleague, who had been
arrested just outside the office, came to me, accompanied by
a policeman, to bid me good-bye. I was so full of the conceit that
I must treat these novel occurrences as everyday happenings
that I treated my colleague in a most unfeeling manner. Casu-
ally I asked him and the policeman to wait till I had finished
the letter I was writing. Soon news came of other arrests in
the city. I decided at last to go home and see what was happen-
ing there. I found the inevitable police searching part of the
large house and learnt that they had come to arrest both father
and me.

Nothing that we could have done would have fitted in so well

80 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

with out programme of boycotting the Prince’s visit. Where*
ever he was taken he was met with hartals and deserted streets.
Allahabad, when he came, seemed to be a city of the dead;
Calcutta, a few days later, suddenly put a temporary stop to all
the activities of a great city. It was hard on the Prince of Wales;
he was not to blame, and there was no feeling against him what-
ever. But the Government of India had tried to exploit his
personality to prop up their decaying prestige.

There was an orgy of arrests and convictions, especially in the
United Provinces and in Bengal. All the prominent Congress
leaders and workers in these provinces were arrested, and or-
dinary volunteers by the thousand went to prison. They were,
at first, largely city men and there seemed to be an inexhaustible
supply of volunteers for prison. The U.P. Provincial Congress
Committee was arrested en bloc (55 members) as they were actu-
ally holding a committee meeting. Many people, who had so far
taken no part in any Congress or political activity, were carried
away by the wave of enthusiasm and insisted on being arrested.
There were cases of Government clerks, returning from their
offices in the evening, being swept away by this current and
landing in gaol instead of their homes. Young men and boys
would crowd inside the police lorries and refuse to come out.
Every evening we could hear from inside the gaol, lorry after
lorry arriving outside heralded by our slogans and shouts. The
gaols were crowded and the gaol officials were at their wits’ ends
at this extraordinary phenomenon. It happened sometimes that
a police lorry would bring, according to the warrant accom-
panying it, a certain number of prisoners — no names were or
could be mentioned. Actually, a larger number than that men-
tioned would emerge from tne lorry and the gaol officials did
not know how to meet this novel situation. There was nothing
in the Jail Manual about it.

Gradually the Government gave up the policy of indis*
criminate arrests; only noted workers were picked out. Gradu-
ally also the first flush of enthusiasm of the people cooled
down and, owing to the absence in prison of all the trusted
workers, a feeling of indecision and helplessness spread. But
the change was superficial only, and there was still thunder in
the air and the atmosphere was tense and pregnant with
revolutionary possibilities. During the months of December 1921
and January 1922 it is estimated that about thirty thousand
persons were sentenced to imprisonment in connection with the
non-co-operation movement. But though most of the prominent
men and workers were in prison, the leader of the whole

THE FIRST IMPRISONMENT 8l

struggle, Mahatma Gandhi, was still out, issuing from day to
day messages and directions which inspired the people, as well
as checking many an undesirable activity. The Government
had not touched him so far, for they feared the consequences,
the reactions on the Indian Army and the police.

Suddenly, early in February 1922, the whole scene shifted,
and we in prison learnt, to our amazement and consternation,
thatGandhiji had stopped the aggressive aspects of our struggle,
that he had suspended civil resistance. We read that this was
because of what had happened near the village of Chauri
Chaura where a mob of villagers had retaliated on some police-
men by setting fire to the police-station and burning half a
dozen or so policemen in it.

We were angry when we learnt of this stoppage of our struggle
at a time when we seemed to be consolidating our position and
advancing on all fronts. But our disappointment and anger in
prison could do little good to any one, and civil resistance stopped
and non-co-operation wilted away. After many months of strain
and anxiety the Government breathed again, and for the first
time had the opportunity of taking the initiative. A few weeks
later they arrested Gandniji and sentenced him for a long term
of imprisonment.

XII

NON-VIOLENCE AND THE DOCTRINE OF
THE SWORD

The sudden suspension of our movement after the Chauri
Chanra incident was resented, I think, by almost all the promi-
nent Congress leaders— other than Gandhi ji of course. My father
(who was in gaol at the time) was much upset by it. The younger
people were naturally even more agitated. Our mounting hopes
tumbled to the ground, and this mental reaction was to be
expected. What troubled us even more were the reasons given
for this suspension and the consequences that seemed to flow
from them. Chauri Chaura may have been and was a deplorable
occurrence and wholly opposed to the spirit of the non-violent
movement; but were a remote village and a mob of excited
peasants in an out-of-the-way place going to put an end, for
some time at least, to our national struggle for freedom? If this
was the inevitable consequence of a sporadic act of violence,
then surely there was something lacking in the philosophy and
technique of a non-violent struggle. For it seemed to us to be
impossible to guarantee against the occurrence of some such
untoward incident. Must we train the three hundred and odd
millions of India in the theory and practice of non-violent
action before we could go forward? And, even so, how many of
us could say that under extreme provocation from the police
we would be able to remain perfectly peaceful? But even if we
succeeded, what of the numerous agents provocateurs, stool
pigeons, and the like who crept into our movement and indulged
in violence themselves or induced others to do so? If this was
the sole condition of its function, then the non-violent method
of resistance would always fail.

We had accepted that method, the Congress had made that
method its own, because of a belief in its effectiveness. Gandhiji
had placed it before the country not only as the right method
but as the most effective one for our purpose. In spite of its
negative name it was a dynamic method, the very opposite of
a meek submission to a tyrant’s will. It was not a coward’s refuge
from action, but the brave man’s defiance of evil and national
subjection. But what was the use of the bravest and the strongest
if a few odd persons — maybe even our opponents in the guise of
friends— had the power to upset or end our movement by their
rash behaviour?

it

NON-VIOLENCE

83

Gandhiji had pleaded for the adoption of the way of non-
violence, of peaceful non-co-operation, with all the eloquence
and persuasive power which he so abundantly possessed. His
language had been simple and unadorned, his voice and appear-
ance cool and clear and devoid of all emotion, but behind that
outward covering of ice there was the heat of a blazing fire and
concentrated passion, and the words he uttered winged their
way to the innermost recesses of our minds and hearts, and
created a strange ferment there. The way he pointed out was
hard and difficult, but it was a brave path, and it seemed to
lead to the promised land of freedom. Because of that promise
wepledged our faith and marched ahead. In a famous article—
“ The Doctrine of the Sword he had written in 1920:

"I do believe that when there is only a choice between
cowardice and violence, I would advise violence. ... I would
rather have India resort to arms in order to defend her honour
than that she should in a cowardly manner become or remain
a helpless victim to her own dishonour. But I believe that non-
violence is infinitely superior to violence, forgiveness is more
manly than punishment spr tftro

“ Forgiveness adorns a soldier. But abstinence is forgiveness
only when there is power to punish; it is meaningless when
it pretends to proceed from a helpless creature. A mouse hardly
forgives a cat when it allows itself to be tom to pieces by
her. . . . But I do not believe India to be helpless, I do not
believe myself to be a helpless creature. . . .

“ Let me not be misunderstood. Strength does not come from
physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will. . . .

“ I am not a visionary. I claim to be a practical idealist. The
religion of non-violence is not meant merely for the Rishis
and saints. It is meant for the common people as well. Non-
violence is the law of our species as violence is the law of the
brute. The spirit lies dormant in the brute and he knows no
law but that of physical might. The dignity of man requires
obedience to a higher law — to the strength of the spirit.

“I have therefore ventured to place before 'India the ancient
law of self-sacrifice. For Satyagrah and its off-shoots, non-co-
operation and civil resistance, are nothing but new names for
the law of suffering. The Rishis who discovered the law of
non-violence in the midst of violence, were greater geniuses than
Newton. They were themselves greater warriors than Welling-
ton. Having themselves known the use of arms, they realised
their uselessness and taught a weaiy world that its salvation
lay not through violence but through non-violence.

84 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

“Non-violence in its dynamic condition means conscious
suffering. It does not mean meek submission to the will of
the evil-doer, but it means the putting of one’s whole soul
against the will of the tyrant Working under this law of our
being, it is possible for a single individual to defy the whole
might of an unjust empire to save his honour, his religion, his
soul and lay the foundation for that empire's foil or regenera-
tion.

“ And so I am not pleading for India to practise non-violence
because it is weak. I want her to practise non-violence being
conscious of her strength and power. ... I want India to
recognise that she has a soul that cannot perish, and that can
rise triumphant above any physical weakness and defy the
physical combination of a whole world. . . .

“I isolate this non-co-operation from Sinn Feinism, for, it is
so conceived as to be incapable of being offered side by side
with violence. But I invite even the school of violence to give
this peaceful non-co-operation a trial. It will not fail through
its inherent weakness. It may fail because of poverty of
response. Then will be the time for real danger. The high-
souled men, who are unable to suffer national humiliation any
longer, will want to vent their wrath. They will take to violence.
So far as I know, they must perish without delivering them-
selves or their country from the wrong. If India takes up the
doctrine of the sword, she may gain momentary victory. Then
India will cease to be the priae of my heart. I am wedded to
India because I owe my all to her. I believe absolutely that she
has a mission for the world.”

We were moved by these arguments, but for us and for the
National Congress as a whole the non-violent method was not,
and could not be, a religion or an unchallengeable creed or
dogma. It could only be a policy and a method promising
certain results, and by those results it would have to be finally
judged. Individuals might make of it a religion or incontro-
vertible creed. But no political organisation, so long as it
remained political, could do so.

Chauri Chaura and its consequences made us examine these
implications of non-violence as a method, and we felt that, if
Gandhiji’s argument for the suspension of civil resistance was
correct, our opponents would always have the power to create
circumstances which would necessarily result in our abandoning
the struggle. Was this the fault of the non-violent method itself
or of Gandhi ji's interpretation of it? After all, he was the
author and originator of it, and who could be a better judge of

NON-VIOLENCE 85

what it was and what it was not? And without him where was
our movement?

Many years later, just before the 1930 Civil Disobedience
movement began, Gandhi ji, much to our satisfaction, made this
point clear. He stated that the movement should not be aban-
doned because of the occurrence of sporadic acts of violence.
If the non-violent method of struggle could not function
because of such almost inevitable happenings, then it was
obvious that it was not an ideal method for all occasions, and
this he was not prepared to admit. For him the method, being
the right method, should suit all circumstances and should be
able to function, at any rate in a restricted way, even in a hostile
atmosphere. Whether this interpretation, which widened the
scope of non-violent action, represented an evolution in his own
mind or not I do not know.

As a matter of fact even the suspension of civil resistance in
February 1922 was certainly not due to Chauri Chaura alone,
although most people imagined so. That was only the last straw.
Gandhiji has often acted almost by instinct; by long and close
association with the masses he appears to have developed, as
great popular leaders often do, a new sense which tells him how
the mass feels, what it does and what it can do. He reacts to
this instinctive feeling and fashions his action accordingly, and
later, for the benefit of his surprised and resentful colleagues,
tries to clothe his decision with reasons. This covering is often
very inadequate, as it seemed after Chauri Chaura. At that time
our movement, in spite of its apparent power and the widespread
enthusiasm, was going to pieces. All organisation and discipline
was disappearing; almost all our good men were in prison, and
the masses had so far received little training to carry on by them-
selves. Any unknown man who wanted to do so could take
charge of a Congress Committee and, as a matter of fact, large
numbers of undesirable men, including agents provocateurs,
came to the front and even controlled some local Congress and
Khilafat organisations. There was no way of checking them.

This kina of thing is, of course, to some extent almost
inevitable in such a struggle. The leaders must take the lead in
going to prison, and trust to others to carry on. All that can be
done is to train the masses in some simple kinds of activity and,
even more so, to abstain from certain other kinds of activity.
In 1930 we had already spent several years in giving some such
training, and the Civil Disobedience movement then and in 1932
was a very powerful and organised affair. This was lacking in
1921 and 1922, and there was little behind the excitement and

86

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

enthusiasm of the people. There is little doubt that if the move-
men had continued there would have been growing sporadic
violence in many places. This would have been crushed by
Government in a bloody manner and a reign of terror estab-
lished which would have thoroughly demoralised the people.

These were probably the reasons and influences that worked in
Gandhiji’s mind, and granting his premises and the desirability
of carrying on with the technique of non-violence, his decision
was right. He had to stop the rot and build anew. From another
and an entirely different view-point his decision might be con-
sidered wrong, but that view-point had nothing to do with the
non-violent method. It was not possible to have it both ways. To
invite a bloody suppression of the movement in that particular
sporadic way and at that stage would not, of course, have put an
end to the national movement, for such movements have a way
of rising from their ashes. Temporary set-backs are often helpful
in clarifying issues and in giving backbone; what matters is not
a set-back or apparent defeat, but the principles and ideals: If
these principles can be kept untarnished by the masses, then re-
covery comes soon. But what were our principles and objectives
in 1921 and 1922? A vague Swaraj with no clear ideology behind
it and a particular technique of non-violent struggle. Tne latter
method would naturally have gone if the country had taken to
sporadic violence on any big scale, and as to the former, there
was little to hold on to. The people generally were not strong
enough to carry on the struggle for long and, in spite of almost
universal discontent with foreign rule and sympathy with the
Congress, there was not enough backbone or organisation. They
could not last. Even the crowds that went to prison did so on the
spur of the moment, expecting the whole thing to be over very
soon.

It may be, therefore, that the decision to suspend civil resist-
ance in 1922 was a right one, though the manner of doing it left
much to be desired and brought about a certain demoralisation.

It is possible, however, that this sudden bottling up of a great
movement contributed to a tragic development in the country.
The drift to sporadic and futile violence in the political struggle
was stopped, but the suppressed violence had to find a way out,
and in the following years this perhaps aggravated the com-
munal trouble. The communalists of various denominations,
mostly political reactionaries, had been forced to lie low because
of the overwhelming mass support for the non-co-operation and
civil disobedience movement. They emerged now from their
retirement. Many others, secret service agents and people who

NON-VIOLENCE

87

sought to please the authorities by creating communal friction,
also worked on the same theme. Tne Moplah rising and its extra-
ordinarily cruel suppression— what a horrible tning was the
baking to death of the Moplah prisoners in the closed railway
vans I — had already given a handle to those who stirred the
waters of communal discord. It is just possible that if civil
resistance had not been stopped and the movement had been
crushed by Government, there would have been less communal
bitterness and less superfluous energy left for the subsequent
communal riots.

Before civil resistance was called off an incident occurred which
might have led to different results. The first wave of civil resist-
ance amazed and frightened the Government. It was then that
Lord Reading, the Viceroy, said in a public speech that he was
troubled and perplexed. The Prince of Wales was in India, and
his presence added greatly to the Government’s responsibility.
An attempt was made by the Government in December 1921,
soon after the mass arrests at the beginning of the month, to
come to some understanding with the Congress. This was especi-
ally in view of the Prince’s forthcoming visit to Calcutta. Tnere
were some informal talks between representatives of the Bengal
Government and Deshbandhu Das, who was in gaol then. A
proposal seems to have been made, that a small round table con-
ference might take place between the Government and the Con-
gress. This proposal appears to have fallen through because
Gandhiji insisted that Maulana Mohamad Ali, who was then in
prison in Karachi, should be present at this conference. Govern-
ment would not agree to this.

Mr. C. R. Das did not approve of Gandhiji’s attitude in this
matter and, when he came out of prison later, he publicly criti-
cised him and said that he had blundered. Most of us (we were
in gaol) do not know the details of what took place then, and it
is difficult to judge without all the facts. It seems, however, that
little good could have come out of the conference at that stage.
It was an effort on the part of Government to tide over somehow
the period of the Prince's visit to Calcutta. The basic problems
that faced us would have remained. Nine years later, when the
nation and the Congress were far stronger, such a conference
took place without any great results. But apart from this, it seems
to me that Gandhiji’s insistence on Mohamad AH’s presence was
perfectly justified. Not only as a Congress leader but as the leader
of the Khilafat movement— and the Khilafat question was then
an important plank in the Congress programme — his presence
was essential. No policy or manoeuvre can ever be a right one if

88 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

it involves the forsaking of a colleague. The fact that Govern-
ment were not prepared to release him from gaol itself shows
that there was no likelihood of any results from a conference.

Both my father and I had been sentenced to six months’ im-
prisonment on different charges and by different courts. The
trials were farcical and, as was our custom, we took no part in
them. It was easy enough, of course, to find enough material in
our speeches or other activities for a conviction. But the actual
choice was amusing. Father was tried as a member of an illegal
organisation, the Congress Volunteers, and to prove this a form
with his signature in Hindi was produced. The signature was
certainly his, but, as it happened, he had hardly ever signed in
Hindi before, and very few persons could recognise his Hindi
signature. A tattered gentleman was then produced who swore
to the signature. The man was quite illiterate, and he held the
signature upside down when he examined it. My daughter,
aged four at the time, had her first experience of the dock during
father’s trial, as he held her in his arms throughout.

My offence was distributing notices for a hartal . This was no
offence under the law then, though I believe it is one now, for
we are rapidly advancing towards Dominion Status. However, I
was sentenced. Three months later I was informed in the prison,
where I was with my father and others, that some revising
authority had come to the conclusion that I was wrongly sen-
tenced and I was to be discharged. I was surprised, as no one had
taken any step on my behalf. The suspension of civil resistance
had apparently galvanised the revising judges into activity. I was
sorry to go out, leaving my father behind.

I decided to go almost immediately to Gandhiji in Ahmeda-
bad. Before I arrived there he had been arrested, and my inter-
view with him took place in Sabarmati Prison. I was present at
his trial. It was a memorable occasion, and those of us who were
present are not likely ever to forget it. The judge, an English-
man, behaved with dignity and feeling. Gandhiji’s statement to
the court was a most moving one, and we came away, emotion-
ally stirred, and with the impress of his vivid phrases and
striking images in our mind.

I came back to Allahabad. I felt unhappy and lonely outside
the prison when so many of my friends and colleagues were
behind prison bars. I found that the Congress organisation was
not functioning well and I tried to put it straight. In particular
I interested myself in the boycott of foreign cloth. This item of
our programme still continued in spite of the withdrawal of
civil resistance. Nearly all the cloth merchants in Allahabad had

NON-VIOLENCE

89

pledged themselves not to import or purchase foreign cloth, and
had formed an association for the purpose. The rules of this
association laid down that any infringement would be punished
by a fine. I found that several of the big dealers had broken
their pledges and were importing foreign cloth. This was very
unfair to those who stuck to their pledges. We remonstrated
with little result, and the cloth dealers’ association seemed to be
powerless to take action. So we decided to picket the shops of the
erring merchants. Even a hint of picketing was enough for our
purpose. Fines were paid, pledges were taken afresh. The money
from the fines went to the cloth merchants’ association.

Two or three days later I was arrested, together with a number
of colleagues who had taken part in the negotiations with the
merchants. We were charged with criminal intimidation and
extortion! I was further charged with some other offences, in-
cluding sedition. I did not defend myself, but I made a long
statement in court. I was sentenced on at least three counts,
including intimidation and extortion, but the sedition charge
was not proceeded with, as it was probably considered that I had
already got as much as I deserved. As far as I remember there
were three sentences, two of which were for eighteen months
and were concurrent. In all, I think, I was sentenced to a year
and nine months. That was my second sentence. I went back to
prison after about six weeks spent outside it.

XIII

LUCKNOW DISTRICT GAOL

Imprisonment for political offences was not a new thing in the
India of 1921. From the time of the Bengal partition agitation
especially, there had always been a continuous stream of men
going to prison, sentenced often to very long terms. There had
been internments without trial also. The greatest Indian leader
of the day, Lokamanya Tilak, was sentenced in his declining
years to six years* imprisonment. The Great War speeded up
this process of internment and imprisonment, and conspiracy
cases became frequent, usually resulting in death sentences or
life terms. The Ali brothers and M. Abulkalam Azad were
among the war-time internees. Soon after the war, martial law in
the Punjab took a heavy toll, and large numbers were sentenced
in conspiracy cases or summary trials. So political imprisonment
had become a frequent enough occurrence in India, but so far it
had not been deliberately courted. It had come in the course of
a person’s activities, or perhaps because the secret police did not
fancy him, and every effort was made to avoid it by means of
a defence in the law court. In South Africa, of course, a different
example had been set by Gandhiji and thousands of his fol-
lowers in their campaign of Satyagraha.

But still in 1921 prison was an almost unknown place, and
very few knew what happened behind the grim gates that swal-
lowed the new convict. Vaguely we imagined that its inhabitants
were desperate people and dangerous criminals. In our minds
the place was associated with isolation, humiliation, and suffer-
ing, and, above all, the fear of the unknown. Frequent references
to gaol-going from 1920 onwards, and the march of many of our
comrades to prison, gradually accustomed us to the idea and
took away the edge from that almost involuntary feeling of re-
pugnance and reluctance. But no amount of previous mental
preparation could prevent the tension and nervous excitement
that filled us when we first entered the iron gates. Since those
days, thirteen years ago, I imagine that at least three hundred
thousand rfren and women of India have entered those gates for

K litical offences, although often enough the actual charge has
en under some other section of the criminal code. Thousands
of these have gone in and out many a time; they have got to
know well what to expect inside; they have tried to adapt them-

90

LUCKNOW DISTRICT GAOL 91

selves to the strange life there, as far as one can adapt oneself to
an existence full of abnormality and a dull suffering and a dread-
ful monotony. We grow accustomed to it, as one grows ac-
customed to almost anything; and yet every time that we
enter those gates again, there is a bit of the old excitement, a
feeling of tension, a quickening of the pulse. And the eyes
turn back involuntarily to take a last good look outside at the
greenery and wide spaces, and people and conveyances moving
about, and familiar faces that they may not see again for a long
time.

My first term in gaol, which ended rather suddenly after three
months, was a hectic period both for us and the gaol staff. The
gaol officials were half paralysed by the influx of the new type
of convict. The number itself of these newcomers, added to
from day to day, was extraordinary and created an impression
of a flood which might sweep away the old traditional land-
marks. More upsetting still was the type of the newcomer. It
belonged to all classes, but had a high proportion of the middle
class. All these classes, however, had this in common: they
differed entirely from the ordinary convict, and it was not easy
to treat them in the old way. This was recognised by the authori-
ties, but there was nothing to take the place of the existing
rules; there were no precedents and no experience. The average
Congress prisoner was not very meek and mild, and even inside
the gaol walls numbers gave him a feeling of strength. The agita-
tion outside, and the new interest of the public in what trans-
pired inside the prisons, added to this. In spite of this somewhat
aggressive attitude, our general policy was one of co-operation
with the gaol authorities. But for our help, the troubles of the
officials would have been far greater. The gaoler would come to
us frequently and ask us to visit some of the barracks containing
our volunteers in order to soothe them or get them to agree to
something.

We had come to prison of our own accord, many of the volun-
teers indeed having pushed their way in almost uninvited. There
was thus hardly any question of any one of them trying to
escape. If he had any desire to go out, he could do so easily by
expressing regret for his action or giving an undertaking that he
would retrain from such activity in future. An attempt to escape
would only bring a measure of ignominy, and in itself was tan-
tamount to a withdrawal from political activity of the civil
resistance variety. The superintendent of our prison in Lucknow
fully appreciated this and used to tell the gaoler (who was a Khan
Sahib) that if he could succeed in allowing some of the Congress

99 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

prisoners to escape he, the superintendent, would recommend
him to Government for the title of Khan Bahadur.

Most of our fellow-prisoners were kept in huge barracks in the
inner circle of the prison. About eighteen of us, selected 1 sup-
pose for better treatment, were kept in an old weaving shed with
a large open space attached. My father, two of my cousins, and I
had a small shed to ourselves, about 20 feet by 16. We had con-
siderable freedom in moving about from one Wrack to another.
Frequent interviews with relatives outside were allowed. News-
papers came, and the daily news of fresh arrests and the develop-
ments of our struggle kept up an atmosphere of excitement.
Mutual discussions and talks took up a lot of time, and I could
do little reading or other solid work. I spent the mornings in a
thorough cleaning and washing of our shed, in washing father’s
and my own clothes, and in spinning. It was winter, the best
time of year in North India. For the first few weeks we were
allowed to open classes for our volunteers, or such of them as
were illiterate, to teach them Hindi and Urdu and other elemen-
tary subjects. In the afternoons we played volley-ball. 1

Gradually restrictions grew. We were stopped from going out-
side our enclosure and visiting the part of the gaol where most
of our volunteers were kept. The classes naturally stopped. I
was discharged about that time.

I went out early in March, and six or seven weeks later, in
April, I returned. I found that the conditions had greatly
changed. Father had been transferred to the Naini Tal Gaol and,
soon after his departure, new rules were enforced. All the
prisoners in the big weaving shed, where I had been kept pre-
viously, were transferred to the inner gaol and kept in the bar-
racks (single halls) there. Each barrack was practically a gaol
within a gaol, and no communications were allowed between
different barracks. Interviews and letters were now restricted to
one a month. The food was much simpler, though we were
allowed to supplement it from outside.

In the barrack in which I was kept there must have been about

* A ridiculous story has appeared in the Press, and, though con-
tradicted, continues to appear from time to time. According to this,
Sir Harcouyt Butler, the then Governor of the U.P., sent champagne
to my father in prison. Sir Harcourt sent my father nothing at all
in prison; nobody sent him champagne or any other alcoholic drink;
and indeed he had given up alcohol in 1930 after the Congress took
to non-co-operation, and was not taking any such drinks at that
time.

LUCKNOW DISTRICT GAOL 93

fifty persons. We were all crowded together, our beds being
about three or fimr feet from each other. Fortunately almost
everybody in that barrack was known to me, and there were
many friends. But the utter want of privacy, all day and night,
became more and more difficult to endure. Always the same
crowd looking on, the same petty annoyances and irritations,
and no escape from them to a cjuiet nook. We bathed in public
and washed our clothes in public, and ran round and round the
barrack for exercise, and talked and argued till we had largely
exhausted each other’s capacity for intelligent conversation. It
was the dull side of family life, magnified a hundred-fold, with
few of its graces and compensations, and all this among people
of all kinds and tastes. It was a great nervous strain for all of us,
and often I yearned for solitude. In later years I was to have
enough of this solitude and privacy in prison, when for months
I would see no one except an occasional gaol official. Again I
lived in a state of nervous tension, but this time I longed for
suitable company. I thought then sometimes, almost with envy,
of my crowded existence in the Lucknow District Gaol in 1933,
and yet I knew well enough that of the two I preferred the
solitude, provided at least that I could read and write.

And yet I must say that the company was unusually decent
and pleasant, and we got on well together. But all of us, I sup-
pose, got a little bored with the others occasionally and wanted
to be away from them and have a little privacy. The nearest
approach to privacy that I could get was by leaving my barrack
and sitting in the open part of the enclosure. It was the monsoon
season and it was usually possible to do so because of the clouds.
I braved the heat and an occasional drizzle even, and spent as
much time as possible outside the barrack.

Lying there in the open, I watched the skies and the clouds
and I realised, better than I had ever done before, how amaz-
ingly beautiful were their changing hues.

“ To watch the changing clouds, like clime in clime;

Oh! sweet to lie and bless the luxury of time.”

Time was not a luxury for us, it was more of a burden. But
the time I spent in watching those ever-shifting monsoon clouds
was filled with delight and a sense of relief. I had the joy of
having made almost a discovery, and a feeling of escape from
confinement. I do not know why that particular monsoon had
that great effect on me; no previous or subsequent one has moved
me in that way. I had seen and admired many a fine sunrise
and sunset in the mountains and over the sea, and bathed in its

94 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

glory, and felt stirred for the time being by its magnificence.
Having seen it, I bad almost taken it for granted and passed on
to other things. But in gaol there were no sunrises or sunsets to
be seen, the horizon was hidden from us, and late in the morning
the hot-rayed sun emerged over our guardian walls. There were
no colours anywhere, and our eyes hardened and grew dull at
seeing always that same drab view of mud-coloured wall and
barrack. They must have hungered for some light and shade
and colouring, and when the monsoon clouds sailed gaily by,
assuming fantastic shapes, and playing in a riot of colour, I
gasped in surprised delight and watched them almost as if I
was in a trance. Sometimes the clouds would break, and one saw
through an opening in them that wonderful monsoon phenome-
non, a dark blue of an amazing depth, which seemed to be a
portion of infinity.

The restrictions on us gradually grew in number, and stricter
rules were enforced. The Government, having got the measure
of our movement, wanted us to experience the full extent of its
displeasure with our temerity in having dared to challenge it.
The introduction of. new rules or the manner of their enforce-
ment led to friction between the gaol authorities and the political

S risoners. For several months nearly all of us — we were some
undreds at the time in that particular gaol — gave up our inter-
views as a protest. Evidently it was thought that some of us
were the trouble-makers, and so seven of us were transferred to a
distant part of the gaol, quite cut off from the main barracks.
Among those who were thus separated were Purushottam Das
Tandon, Mahadev Desai, George Joseph, Balkrishna Sharma,
Devadas Gandhi and I.

We were sent to a smaller enclosure, and there were some dis-
advantages in living there. But on the whole I was glad of the
change. There was no crowding here; we could live in greater
quiet and with more privacy. There was more time to read or
do other work. We were cut off completely from our colleagues
in other parts of the gaol as well as from the outside world, for
newspapers were now stopped for all political prisoners.

Newspapers did not come to us, but some news from outside
trickled through, as it always manages to trickle through in

E rison. Our monthly interviews and letters also brought us odd
its of information. We saw that our movement was at a low
ebb outside. The magic moment had passed and success seemed
to retire into the dim future. Outside, the Congress was split into
two factions — the pro-changers and no-changers. The former,
under the leadership of Deshbandhu Das and my father, wanted

LUCKNOW DISTRICT CAOL 95

the Congress to take part in the new elections to the central and
provincial councils and, if possible, to capture these legislatures;
the latter, led by C. Rajagopalachari, opposed any change
of the old programme of non-co-operation. Ganahiji was,
of course, in prison at the time. The fine ideals of the move-
ment which had carried us forward, as on the crest of an
advancing tide, were being swamped by petty squabbles and
intrigues for power. We realised how much easier it was to
do great and venturesome deeds in moments of enthusiasm
and excitement than to carry on from day to day when the
glow was past. Our spirits were damped by the news from
outside, and this, added to the various humours that prison
produces, increased the strain of life there. But still there re-
mained within us an inner feeling of satisfaction, that we had
preserved our self-respect and dignity, that we had acted rightly
whatever the consequences. The future was dim, but, whatever
shape it might take, it seemed that it would be the lot of many
of us to spend a great part of our lives in prison. So we talked
amongst ourselves, and I remember particularly a conversation
with George Joseph in which we came to this conclusion. Since
those days Joseph has drifted far apart from us and has even
become a vigorous critic of our doings. I wonder if he ever
remembers that talk we had on an autumn evening in the Civil
Ward of the Lucknow District Gaol?

We settled down to a routine of work and exercise. For exer-
cise we used to run round and round the little enclosure, or two
of us would draw water, like two bullocks yoked together, pull-
ing a huge leather bucket from a well in our yard. In this way
we watered a small vegetable garden in our enclosure. Most of
us used to spin a little daily. But reading was my principal occu-
pation during those winter days and long evenings. Almost
always, whenever the superintendent visited us, he found me
reading. This devotion to reading seemed to get on his nerves a
little, and he remarked on it once, adding that, so far as he was
concerned, he had practically finished his general reading at the
age of twelve ! No doubt this abstention on his*part had been of
use to that gallant English colonel in avoiding troublesome
thoughts, and perhaps it helped him subsequently in rising to
the position of Inspector-General of Prisons in the United
Provinces.

The long winter evenings and the clear Indian sky attracted us
to the stars and, with the help of some charts, we spotted many
of them. Nightly we would await their appearance and greet
them with the satisfadon of seeing old acquaintances.

96 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

So we passed our time, and the days lengthened themselves
into weeks, and the weeks became months. We grew accustomed
to our routine existence. But in the world outside the real burden
fell on our womenfolk, our mothers and wives and sisters. They
wearied with the long waiting, and their very freedom seemed a
reproach to them when their loved ones were behind prison bars.

Soon after our first arrest in December 1931 the police started
paying frequent visits to Anand Bhawan, our house in Allaha-
bad. They came to realise the fines which had been imposed on
father and me. It was the Congress policy not to pay fines. So
the police came day after day and attached and carried away
bits of furniture. Indira, my four-year-old daughter, was greatly
annoyed at this continuous process of despoilation and protested
to the police and expressed her strong displeasure. I am afraid
those early impressions are likely to colour her future views
about the police force generally.

In the gaol every effort was made to keep us apart from the
ordinary non-political convicts, special gaols being as a rule re-
served for politicals. But complete segregation was impossible,
and we often came into touch with those prisoners and learnt
from them, as well as directly, the realities of prison life in those
days. It was a story of violence and widespread graft and corrup-
tion. The food was quite amazingly bad; I tried it repeatedly
and found it quite uneatable. Tne staff was usually wholly
incompetent and was paid very low salaries, but it had every
opportunity to add to its income by extorting money on every
conceivable occasion from the prisoners or their relatives. The
duties and responsibilities of the gaoler and his assistants and the
warders, as laid down by the Gaol Manual, were so many and so
various that it was quite impossible for any person to discharge
them conscientiously or competently. The general policy of the
prison administration in the United Provinces (and probably in
other provinces) had absolutely nothing to do with the reform
of the prisoner or of teaching him good habits and useful trades.
The object of prison labour was to harass the convict. 1 He was

1 Article 987 of the United Provinces Gaol Manual, which has now
been removed from the new edition, stated that :

“ Labour in a gaol should be considered primarily as a means of
punishment and not of employment only; neither should the ques-
tion of its being highly remunerative have much weight, the object
of paramount importance being that prison work should be irksome
ana laborious and a cause of dread to evil-doers.”

This might be compared with the following articles of the Russian
S JT.S.R. Criminal Code :

LUCKNOW DISTRICT GAOL 97

to be frightened and broken into blind submission; the idea was
that he should carry away from prison a fear and a horror of it,
so that he might avoid crime and a return to prison in the
future.

There have been some changes in recent years for the better.
Food has improved a little, so also clothing and other matters.
This was largely due to the agitation carried on outside by poli-
tical prisoners after their discharge. Non-co-operation also
resulted in a substantial increase in the warders’ salaries to give
them an additional inducement to remain loyal to the Sarkar.
A feeble effort is also made now to teach reading and writing to
the boys and younger prisoners. But all these changes, welcome
as they are, barely scratch the problem, and the old spirit remains
much the same.

The great majority of the political prisoners had to put up
with this regular treatment for ordinary prisoners. They had no
special privileges or other treatment, but being more aggressive
and intelligent than the others, they could not easily be ex-
ploited, nor could money be made out of them. Because of this
they were naturally not popular with the staff, and when occasion
offered itself a breach of gaol discipline by any of them was
punished severely. For such a breach a young boy of fifteen or
sixteen, who called himself Azad, was ordered to be flogged.
He was stripped and tied to the whipping triangle, and as each
stripe fell on him and cut into his flesh, he shouted “ Mahatma
Gandhi ki Jai Every stripe brought forth the slogan till the
boy fainted. Later, that boy was to become one of the leaders
of the group of Terrorists in North India.

Article 9.—“ The measures of social defence do not have for their
object the infliction of physical suffering nor the lowering of human
dignity, nor are they meant to avenge or to punish.”

Article 26. — “ Sentences, being a measure of protection, must be
free from any element of torture, and must not cause the criminal
needless or superfluous suffering.”

XIV

OUT AGAIN

One misses many things in prison, but perhaps most of all one
misses the sound of women's voices and children's laughter.
The sounds one usually hears are not of the pleasantest. The
voices are harsh and minatory, and the language brutal and
largely consisting of swear-words. Once I remember being struck
by a new want. I was in the Lucknow District Gaol and I realised
suddenly that I had not heard a dog bark for seven or eight
months.

On the last day of January 1923 all of us politicals in the
Lucknow Gaol were discharged. There must have been between
one hundred and two hundred 4 special class ' prisoners in Luck-
now then. All those who had been sentenced to a year or less in
December 1921 or the beginning of 1922 had already served out
their sentences. Only those with longer sentences, and a few who
had come back a second time, remained. This sudden release
took us by surprise, as there had been no previous intimation of
an amnesty. The local Provincial Council had passed a resolu-
tion favouring a political amnesty, but the executive Government
seldom pays heed to such demands. As it happened, however,
the time was propitious from the point of view of Government.
The Congress was doing nothing against the Government, and
Congressmen were engrossed in mutual squabbles. There were
not many well-known Congress people left in gaol and so the
gesture was made.

There is always a feeling of relief and a sense of glad excite-
ment in coming out of the prison gate. The fresh air and open
expanses, the moving street scene, and the meeting with old
friends, all go to the head and slightly intoxicate. Almost, there
is a touch of hysteria in one’s first reactions to the outer world.
We ielt exhilarated, but this was a passing sensation, for the state
of Congress politics was discouraging enough. In the place of
ideals there were intrigues, and various cliques were trying to
capture the Congress machinery by the usual methods which
have made politics a hateful word to those who are at all
sensitive.

My own inclination was wholly against Council entry, because
this seemed to lead inevitably to compromising tactics and to
a continuous watering down of our objective. But there really

98

OUT AGAIN

99

was no other political programme before the country. The no-
changers laid stress on a * constructive programme , which in
effect was a programme of social reform, and its chief merit
was that it brought our workers in touch with the masses. This
was not likely to satisfy those who believed in political action,
and it was inevitable that after a wave of direct action, which
had not succeeded, there should be a phase of parliamentary
activity. Even this activity was envisaged by Deshbandhu Das
and my father, the leaders of the new movement, as one of
obstruction and defiance and not of co-operation and con-
struction.

Mr. C. R. Das had always favoured entry into the legislatures
for the purpose of carrying on the national struggle there also.
My father had more or less the same outlook, his acceptance of
the Council boycott in 1920 was partly a subordination of his own
view-point to Gandhiji’s. He wanted to throw his full weight into
the struggle, and the only way to do it then was to accept the
Gandhi formula in toto. The minds of many of the younger
people were full of the tactics of Sinn Fein in so far as they had
captured the parliamentary seats and then refused to enter the
House of Commons. I remember pressing Gandhiji in the sum-
mer of 1920 to adopt this variant of the boycott, but in such
matters he was adamant. Mohamad Ali was in Europe then on
a Khilafat deputation. On his return he also expressed his regret
at the method of boycott adopted; he would have preferred
the Sinn Fein way. But it was quite immaterial what other in-
dividuals thought in the matter, as ultimately Gandhiji’s view
was bound to prevail. He was the author of the movement, and
it was felt that he must be given freedom as to the details. His
chief objections to the Sinn Fein method were (apart from its
association with violence) that it would not be understood by the
masses as much as a straight call to boycott the polling-booths
and the voting. To get elected and then not to go to the Councils
would create confusion in the mass mind. Further, that once
our people got elected they would be drawn towards the Councils
and it would be difficult for them to keep out of them. There
was not enough discipline and power in our movement to keep
them out for long, and a demoralising dribble would set in
towards the many direct and indirect ways of taking advantage
of Government patronage through the Councils.

These were weighty arguments and, indeed, we saw many of
them justified in the middle ’twenties when the Swaraj Party
went into the Councils. And yet one cannot help wondering
what would have happened if the Congress had set itself to

IOO JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

capture the legislatures in 1920. There can be no doubt that,
supported as it was by the Khilafat Committee, it would have
won almost every elective seat in the provincial Councils as well
as in the central Assembly. To-day (August 1934) there is again
talk of the Congress putting up candidates for the Assembly,
and a Parliamentary Board has been set up. But much has hap-
pened since 1920 to deepen the fissures in our social and
political fabric, and whatever may be the measure of success
of the Congress in the coming elections, it can hardly be what
it might have been in 1920.

On my discharge from gaol I co-operated with a few others who
were trying to bring about an understanding between the rival
groups. We met with little success, and I was fed up with the
pro-cnange and no-change politics. As secretary of the U.P. Pro-
vincial Congress Committee I devoted myself to the work of
Congress organisation. There was much to be done after the
shake-up of the past year. I worked hard, but I worked with
little purpose. Mentally I was at a loose end. Soon a new field
of activity opened out before me. Within a few weeks of my
release I was pitchforked into the headship of the Allahabad
Municipality. This election was so unexpected that forty-five
minutes before the event no one had mentioned my name, or
perhaps even thought of me, in this connection. But at the last
moment it was felt on the Congress side that I was the only
person of their group who was certain of success.

It so happened that year that leading Congressmen all over
the country became presidents of municipalities. Mr. C. R. Das
became the first Mayor of Calcutta, Mr. Vithalbhai Patel the
President of Bombay Corporation, Sardar Vallabbhai Patel of
Ahmedabad. In the United Provinces most of the big muni-
cipalities had Congressmen for their chairman.

Municipal work in all its varied forms began to interest me,
and I gave more and more time to it. Some of its problems
fascinated me. I studied the subject and developed ambitious
notions of municipal reform. I was to find out later that there
is little room for ambition or startling development in Indian
municipalities as they are constituted to-day. Still, there was
room for work and a cleaning and speeding-up of the machine,
and I worked hard enough at it. Just then my Congress work
was growing, and in addition to the provincial secretaryship I
was made the All-India Secretary also. These various jobs often
made me work fifteen hours a day, and the end of the day found
me thoroughly exhausted.

On my return home from gaol the first letter that met my eyes

OUT AGAIN

IOI

was one from Sir Grimwood Mears, the then Chief Justice of
the Allahabad High Court. The letter had been written before
my discharge, but evidently in the knowledge that it was coming.
I was a little surprised at the cordiality of his language and his
invitation to me to visit him frequently. I hardly knew him.
He had just come to Allahabad m 1919 when I was drifting
away from legal practice. I think I argued only one case before
him, and that was my last one in the High Court. For some
reason or other he developed a partiality for me without knowing
much about me. He had an idea — he told me so later — that I
would go far, and he wanted to be a wholesome influence on me
to make me appreciate the British view-point. His method was
subtle. He was of opinion, and there are many Englishmen who
still think so, that the average ‘ extremist ’ politician in India
had become anti-British because in the social sphere he had been
treated badly by Englishmen. This had led to resentment and
bitterness and extremism. There is a story, which has been
repeated by responsible persons, to the effect that my father was
refused election to an English club and this made him anti-
British and extremist. The story is wholly without foundation
and is a distortion of an entirely different incident. 1 But to many
an Englishman such instances, whether true or not, afford a
simple and sufficient explanation of the origins of the nationalist
movement. As a matter of fact neither my father nor I had any
particular grievance on this score. As individuals we had usually
met with courtesy from the Englishman and we got on well with
him, though, like all Indians, we were no doubt racially conscious
of subjection, and resented it bitterly. I must confess that even
to-day I get on very well with an Englishman, unless he happens
to be an official and wants to patronise me, and even then there
is no lack of humour in our contacts. Probably I have more in
common with him than the Liberals or others who co-operate
with him politically in India.

Sir Grimwood’s idea was to root out this original cause of
bitterness by friendly intercourse and frank and courteous treat-
ment. I saw him several times. On the pretext of objecting to
some municipal tax he would come to see me and discuss other
matters. On one occasion he made quite an onslaught on the
Indian Liberals— timid, weak-kneed opportunists with no char-
acter or backbone, he called them, and his language was stronger
and full of contempt. “ Do you think we have any respect for
them? ” he said. I wondered why he spoke to me in this way;

1 See the footnote in Chapter XXXVIII for a fuller account of
this incident

103 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

probably because he thought that this kind of talk might please
me. And then he led up the conversation to the new Councils
and their Ministers and the opportunities these Ministers had
for serving their country. Education was one of the most vital
problems before the country. Would not an Education Minister,
with freedom to act as he chose, have a worthy opportunity to
mould the destinies of millions, the chance of a lifetime? Sup-
pose, he went on, a man like you, with intelligence, character,
ideals, and the energy to push them through, was in charge of
education for the province, could you not perform wonders?
And he assured me, adding that he had seen the Governor
recently, that I would be given perfect freedom to work out my
policy. Then realising, perhaps, that he had gone too far, he
said that he could not, of course, commit anybody officially, and
the suggestion he had made was a personal one.

I was diverted by Sir Grimwood’s diplomatic and roundabout
approach to the proposal he had made. The idea of my associat-
ing myself with the Government as a Minister was unthinkable
for me ; indeed, it was hateful to me. But I have often yearned,
then as well as in later years, for a chance to do some solid,
positive, constructive work. Destruction and agitation and non-
co-operation are hardly normal activities for human beings. And
yet, such is our fate, that we can only reach the land where we
can build after passing through the deserts of conflict and
destruction. And it may be that most of us will spend our
energies and our lives in struggling and panting through those
shifting sands, and the building will have to be done by our
children or our children’s children.

Ministries were going cheap in those days, in the United Pro-
vinces at least. The two Liberal Ministers, who had functioned
throughout the non-co-operation period, had gone. When the
Congress movement threatened the existing order, the Govern-
ment tried to exploit the Liberal Ministers in fighting Congress.
They were respected then and treated with honour by the
executive government, for it was something to hold them up in
those days of trouble, as supporters of the Government. They
thought, perhaps, that this respect and honour were due to them
as of right, not realising that this was but a reaction on the part
of Government to the mass attack of the Congress. When that
attack watf drawn off the value of the Liberal Ministers fell
heavily in the eyes of Government, and the respect and honour
were suddenly conspicuous by their absence. The Ministers re-
sented this, Dut this availed them little, and soon they were
forced to resign. Then began a search for new Ministers, and

OUT AGAIN

I03

this was not immediately successful. The handful of Liberals
in the Council kept aloof in sympathy with their colleagues
who had been unceremoniously thrown out. Of the others,
mostly zamindars, there were few who could be called even
moderately educated. The Congress having boycotted the
Councils, a curious assortment of people had got in.

There is a story of a person who was offered a ministership in
the U.P. about this time, or perhaps a little later. He is reported
to have replied that he was not vain enough to consider himself
an unusually clever man, but he did think himself to be moder-
ately intelligent and, perhaps, a little above the average, and he
hoped that he had that reputation. Did the Government want
him to accept a ministership and thus proclaim himself to the
world to be a damned fool ?

This protest had some justification. The Liberal Ministers had
been narrow-minded with no broad vision of politics or social
affairs, but that was the fault of the sterile Liberal creed. They
had, however, the ability of professional men, and they did their
routine work conscientiously. Some of those who followed them
in office came from the ranks of the zammdars, and their edu-
cation, even in the formal sense, had been strictly limited. I
think they might justly have been called literate, and nothing
more. It almost seemed that the Governor chose these gentle-
men and put them in high office to display the utter incapacity
of Indians. Of them it might well have been said that :

“ Fortune advanced thee that all might aver
That nothing is impossible to her.” 1

Educated or not, these Ministers had the zamindar vote with
them, and they could give delightful garden parties to the high
officials. What worthier use could be made of the money that
came to them from their starving tenantry?

1 Richard Garnett.

XV

DOUBT AND CONFLICT

I occupied myself with many activities and sought thereby to
keep away from the problems that troubled me. But there was
no escape from them, no getting away from the questions that
were always being formed in my mind and to which I could
find no satisfactory answer. Action now was partly an attempt to
run away from myself ; no longer was it a wholehearted expres-
sion of the self as it had been in 1920 and 1921. I came out of the
shell that had protected me then and looked round at the Indian
scene as well as at the world outside. I found many changes that
I had not so far noticed new ideas, new conflicts, and instead of
light I saw a growing confusion. My faith in Gandhiji’s leader-
ship remained, but I began to examine some parts of his pro-
gramme more critically. But he was in prison and beyond our
reach, and his advice could not be taken. Neither of the two
Congress parties then functioning — the Council party and the
No-changers — attracted me. The former was obviously veering
towards reformism and constitutionalism, and these seemed to
me to lead to a blind alley. The No-changers were supposed to
be the ardent followers of the Mahatma, but like most disciples
of the great, they prized the letter of the teaching more than
the spirit. There was nothing dynamic about them, and in
practice most of them were inoffensive and pious social re-
formers. But they had one advantage. They kept in touch with
the peasant masses, while the Swarajists in the Councils were
wholly occupied with parliamentary tactics.

Deshbandhu Das tried, soon after my discharge from prison,
to convert me to the Swarajist creed. I did not succumb to his
advocacy, though I was by no means clear as to what I should do.
It is curious and rather remarkable, but characteristic of him,
that my father, who was at the time very keen on the Swaraj
Party, never tried to press me or influence me in that direction.
It was obvious that he would have been very pleased if I had
joined him in his campaign, but with extraordinary considera-
tion for me, he left me to myself so far as this subject was
concerned.

During this period there grew up a close friendship between
my father and Mr. C. R. Das. It was something much more
than political camaraderie . There was a warmth and intimacy

104

DOUBT AND CONFLICT IO5

in it that I was not a little surprised to notice, since intimate
friendships are perhaps rarely formed at advanced ages. My
father had a host of acquaintances, and had the gift of laughing
his way through them, but he was chary of friendship, and
in later years he had grown rather cynical. And yet between
him and Deshbandhu the barriers seemed to fall, and they took
each other to heart. My father was nine years older, but was,
physically, probably the stronger and the healthier of the two.
Though both had the same background of legal training and
success at the Bar, they differed in many ways, Mr. Das, in spite
of being a lawyer, was a poet and had a poet’s emotional
outlook— I believe he has written fine poetry in Bengali. He was
an orator, and he had a religious temperament. My father was
more practical and prosaic ; he was a great organiser, and he had
little of religion in him. He had always been a fighter, ready to
receive and give hard blows. Those whom he considered fools
he suffered not at all, or at any rate not gladly ; and opposition
he could not tolerate. It seemed to him a challenge requiring
the use of a broom. The two, my father and Deshbandhu, unlike
in some ways as they were, fitted in and made a remarkable and
effective combination for the leadership of a party, each in
some measure supplying the other s deficiencies. And between
the two of them there was absolute confidence, so much so
that each had authorised the other to use his name for any
statement or declaration, even without previous reference or
consultation.

It was this personal factor that went a long way to establish
the Swaraj Party firmly and give it strength and prestige in the
country. From the earliest days there were fissiparous tendencies
in it, for many careerists and opportunists had been drawn into
it by the possibilities of personal advancement through the
Councils. There were also some genuine moderates in it who
were inclined to more co-operation with the Government. As
soon as these tendencies appeared on the surface after the
elections, they were denounced by the Party leadership. My
father declared that he would not hesitate ‘ to tut off a diseased
limb ’ from the Party, and he acted up to this declaration.

From 1923 onwards I found a great deal of solace and happi-
ness in family life, though I gave little time to it. I have been
fortunate in my family relationships, and in times of strain and
difficulty they have soothed me and sheltered me. I realised,
with some shame at my own unworthiness in this respect, how
much I owed to my wife for her splendid behaviour since 1920.
Proud and sensitive as she was, she had not only put up with

106 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

my vagaries but brought me comfort and solace when I needed
them most.

Our style of living had undergone some change since 1920.
It was much simpler, and the number of servants had been
greatly reduced. Even so, it was not lacking in any essential
comfort. Partly to get rid of superfluities and partly to raise
money for current expenditure, many things had been sold off-
horses and carriages, and household articles which did not fit in
with our new style of living. Part of our furniture had been
seized and sold by the police. For lack of furniture and gar-
deners, our house lost its prim and clean appearance, and the
garden went wild. For nearly three years little attention had
been paid to house or garden. Having become accustomed to a
lavish scale of expenditure, father disliked many economies. He
decided therefore to go in for chamber practice in his spare time
and thus earn some money. He had very little spare time, but,
even so, he managed to earn a fair amount.

I felt uncomfortable and a little unhappy at having to depend
financially on father. Ever since I had given up my legal practice
I had practically no income of my own, except a trifle from
some dividends on shares. My wife and I did not spend much.
Indeed, I was quite surprised to find how little we spent. This
was one of the discoveries made by me in 1921 which brought
me great satisfaction. Khadi clothes and third-class railway
travelling demand little money. I did not fully realise then, living
as we did with father, that tnere are innumerable other house-
hold expenses which mount up to a considerable figure. Anyhow,
the fear of not having money has never troubled me ; I sup-
pose I could earn enough in case of necessity, and we can do
with relatively little.

We were not much of a burden on father, and even a hint of
this kind would have pained him greatly. Yet I disliked my
position, and for the next three years I thought over the problem
without finding a solution. There was no great difficulty in my
finding paying work, but the acceptance of any such work
necessitated my giving up or, at any rate, my curtailing the
public work I was doing. So far I had given all my working time
to Congress work and Municipal work. I did not like to with-
draw from them for the sake of making money. So I refused
offers, financially very advantageous, from big industrial firms.
Probably they were willing to pay heavily, not so much for
my competence as for the opportunity to exploit my name. I did
not like the idea of being associated with big-industry in this
way. To go back to the profession of law was also out of the

DOUBT AND CONFLICT 107

question for me. My dislike for it had grown and kept on
growing.

A suggestion was made in the 1924 Congress that the General
Secretaries should be paid. I happened to be one of the secre-
taries then, and I welcomed the proposal. It seemed to me quite
wrong to expect whole-time work from any one without paying
him a maintenance allowance at least. Otherwise some person
with private means has to be chosen, and such gentlemen of
leisure are not perhaps always politically desirable, nor can they
be held responsible for the work. The Congress would not have
paid much ; our rates of payment were low enough. But there
is in India an extraordinary and thoroughly unjustified preju-
dice against receiving salaries from public funds (though not
from the State), and my father strongly objected to my doing so.
My co-secretary, who was himself in great need of money, also
considered it below his dignity to accept it from the Congress.
And so I, who had no dignity in the matter and was perfectly
prepared to accept a salary, had to do without it.

Once only I spoke to father on the subject and told him how
I disliked the idea of my financial dependence. I put it to him
as gently and indirectly as possible so as not to hurt him. He
pointed out to me how foolish it would be of me to spend my
time, or most of it, in earning a little money, instead of doing
public work. It was far easier for him to earn with a few days*
work all that my wife and I would require for a year. The argu-
ment was weignty, but it left me unsatisfied. However, I con-
tinued to act in consonance with it.

These family affairs and financial worries carried us from the
beginning of 1923 to the end of 1925. Meanwhile the political
situation had been changing and, almost against my will, I was
dragged into various combinations and acceptance of responsible
office in the All-India Congress. The position in 1923 was a
peculiar one. Mr. C. R. Das had been the President of the
preceding Congress at Gaya. As such, he was the ex-officio
Chairman of the All-India Congress Committee for the year
1923. But in this Committee there was a majority against him
and the Swarajist policy, though the majority was a small one,
and the two groups were pretty evenly balanced. Matters came
to a head in the early summer of 1923 at a meeting of the
A.I.C.C. in Bombay. Mr. Das resigned from the chairmanship,
and a small centre group emerged and formed the new Working
Committee. This centre group had no backing whatever in the
A.I.C.C., and could only exist with the goodwill of one of the
two main parties. Allied to either, it could just defeat the other.

108 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Dr. Ansari was the new President, and I was one of the
secretaries.

We soon got into trouble on both sides. Gujrat, which was a
no-change stronghold, refused to carry out some of the directions
of the central office. Late in the summer of the same year
another meeting of the A.I.C.C. was held, this time in Nagpur,
where the National Flag Satyagraha was being carried on.
Our Working Committee, representing the unfortunate Centre
Group, came to an end here after a brief and inglorious career.
It had to go because it represented nobody in particular, and it
tried to boss it over those who held the real power in the Con-
gress organisation. The resignation was brought about by the
failure of an attempt to censure Gujrat for its indiscipline. I
remember how gladly I sent in my resignation and how relieved
I felt. Even a short experience of party manoeuvres had been too
much for me, and I was quite shocked at the way some promi-
nent Congressmen could intrigue.

At this meeting Mr. C. R. Das accused me of being 'cold-
blooded '. I suppose he was right ; it depends on the standard
used for comparison. Compared to many of my friends and
colleagues I am cold-blooded. And yet I have always been afraid
of being submerged in or swept away by too much sentiment
or emotion or temper. For years I have tried my hardest to
become 'cold-blooded’, and I fear that the success that has
attended me in this respect has been superficial only.

XVI

AN INTERLUDE AT NABHA

The tug-of-war between the Swarajists and the No-changers
went on, the former gradually gaining. Another stage, marking
a Swarajist advance, was reached at a special session of the
Congress held at Delhi in the autumn of 1923. It was
immediately after this Congress that I had a strange and un-
expected adventure.

The Sikhs, and especially the Akalis among them, had been
coming into repeated conflict with the Government in the Pun-
jab. A revivalist movement among them had taken it upon
itself to purge their Gurdwaras by driving out corrupt Mahants
and taking possession of the places of worship and the property
belonging to them. The Government intervened and there was
conflict. The Gurdwara movement was partly due to the general
awakening caused by non-co-operation, and the methods of the
Akalis were modelled on non-violent Satyagraha. Many incidents
took place, but chief among them was the famous Guru-ka-Bagh
struggle, where scores of Sikhs, many of them ex-soldiers,
allowed themselves to be brutally beaten by the police without
raising their hands or turning back from their mission. India
was startled by this amazing display of tenacity and courage.
The Gurdwara Committee was declared illegal by the Govern-
ment, and the struggle continued for some years and ended in
the victory of the Sikhs. The Congress was naturally sympa-
thetic, and for some time it had a special liaison officer in
Amritsar to keep in close touch with the Akali movement.

The incident to which I am going to refer had little to do with
this general Sikh movement, but there is no doubt that it
occurred because of this Sikh upheaval. The rulers of two Sikh
States in the Punjab, Patiala, and Nabha, had a bitter, personal
quarrel which resulted ultimately in the deposition of the
Maharaja of Nabha by the Government of India. A British
Administrator was appointed to rule the Nabha State. This
deposition was resented by the Sikhs, and they agitated against
it both in Nabha and outside. In the course of this agitation,
a religious ceremony, at a place called Jaito in Nabha State, was
stopped by the new Administrator. To protest against this, and
with the declared object of continuing the interrupted cere-
mony, the Sikhs began sending jathas (batches of men) to Jaito.

109

IIO JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

These jathas were stopped, beaten by the police, arrested, and
usually carried to an out-of-the-way place in the jungle and left
there. I had been reading accounts of these beatings from time
to time, and when I learnt at Delhi, immediately after the
Special Congress, that another jatha was going and I was in-
vited to come and see what happened, I gladly accepted the
invitation. It meant the loss of only a day to me, as Jaito was
near Delhi. Two of my Congress colleagues — A. T. Gidwani and
K. Santanum of Madras— accompanied me. The jatha marched
most of the way. It was arranged that we should go to the
nearest railway station and then try to reach by road the Nabha
boundary near Jaito just when the jatha was due to arrive there.
We arrived in time, having come in a country cart, and followed
the jatha , keeping apart from it. On arrival at Jaito the jatha
was stopped by the police, and immediately an order was served
on me, signed by the English Administrator, calling upon me
not to enter Nabha territory, and if I had entered it, to leave it
immediately. A similar order was served on Gidwani and
Santanum, but without their names being mentioned, as the
Nabha authorities did not know them. My colleagues and I told
the police officer that we were there not as part of the jatha but
as spectators, and it was not our intention to break any of the
Nabha laws. Besides, when we were already in the Nabha ter-
ritories there could be no question of our not entering them,
and obviously we could not vanish suddenly into thin air.
Probably the next train from Jaito went many hours later. So
for the present, we told him, we proposed to remain there. We
were immediately arrested and taken to the lock-up. After our
removal the jatha was dealt with in the usual manner.

We were kept the whole day in the lock-up and in the evening
we were marched to the station. Santanum and I were hand-
cuffed together, his left wrist to my right one, and a chain
attached to the handcuff was held by the policeman leading us.
Gidwani, also handcuffed and chained, brought up the rear.
This march of ours down the streets of Jaito town reminded me
forcibly of a dog being led on by a chain. We felt somewhat
irritated to begin with, but the humour of the situation dawned
upon us, and on the whole we enjoyed the experience. We did
not enjoy the night that followed. This was partly spent in
crowded third-class compartments in slow-moving trains, with,
I think, a change at midnight, and partly in a lock-up at Nabha.
All this time, till the forenoon of next day, when we were finally
delivered up at the Nabha Gaol, the joint handcuff and the
heavy chain kept us company. Neither of us could move at all

AN INTERLUDE AT NABHA III

without the other’s co-operation. To be handcuffed to another
person for a whole night and part of a day is not an experience
I should like to repeat.

In Nabha Gaol we were all three kept in a most unwholesome
and insanitary cell. It was small and damp, with a low ceiling
which we could almost touch. At night we slept on the floor,
and I would wake up with a start, full of horror, to find that a
rat or a mouse had just passed over my face.

Two or three days later we were taken to court for our case,
and the most extraordinary and Gilbertian proceedings went on
there from day to day. The magistrate or judge seemed to be
wholly uneducated. He knew no English, of course, but I doubt
if he knew how to write the court language, Urdu. We watched
him for over a week, and during all this time he never wrote a
line. If he wanted to write anything he made the court reader
do it. We put in a number of small applications. He did not
pass any orders on them at the time. He kept them and pro-
duced them the next day with a note written by somebody else
on them. We did not formally defend ourselves. We had got
so used to not defending cases in court during the non-co-
operation movement that the idea of defence, even when
it was manifestly permissible, seemed almost indecent. But
I gave the court a long statement containing the facts, as well
as my own opinion about Nabha ways, especially under British
administration.

Our case was dragging on from day to day although it was a
simple enough affair. Suddenly there was a diversion. One after-
noon after the court had risen for ’ the day we were kept waiting
in the building; and late in the evening, at about 7 p.m., we were
taken to another room where a person was sitting by a table
and there were some other people about. One man, our old friend
the police officer who had arrested us at Jaito, was there, and he
got up and began making a statement. I inquired where we
were and what was happening. I was informed that it was a
court-room and we were being tried for conspiracy. This was an
entirely different proceeding from the one we had so far at-
tended, which was for breach of the order not to enter Nabha
territory. It was evidently thought that the maximum sentence
for this breach being only six months was not enough punish-
ment for us and a more serious charge was necessary. Apparently
three were not enough for conspiracy, and so a fourth man, who
had absolutely nothing to do with us, was arrested and put on his
trial with us. This unhappy man, a Sikh, was not known to us,
but we had just seen him in the fields on our way to Jaito.

112 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

The lawyer in me was rather taken aback by the casualness
with which a conspiracy trial had been started. The case was a
totally false one, but decency required that some formalities
should be observed. I pointed out to the judge that we had had
no notice whatever and that we might have wanted to make
arrangements for our defence. This did not worry him at all. It
was the Nabha way. If we wanted to engage a lawyer for our
defence we could chose some one in Nabha. When I suggested
that I might want some lawyer from outside I was told that this
was not permitted under the Nabha rules. We were further
enlightened about the peculiarities of Nabha procedure. In
some disgust we told the judge to do what he liked, but so far
as we were concerned we would take no part in the proceedings.
I could not wholly adhere to this resolve. It was difficult to listen
to the most astounding lies about us and remain silent, and so
occasionally we expressed our opinion, briefly but pointedly,
about the witnesses. We also gave the court a statement in writ-
ing about the facts. This second judge, who tried the conspiracy
case, was more educated and intelligent than the other one.

Both these cases went on and we looked forward to our daily
visits to the two courts-rooms, for that meant a temporary escape
from the foul cell in gaol. Meanwhile, we were approached, on
behalf of the Administrator, by the Superintendent of the gaol,
and told that if we would express our regret and give an under-
taking to go away from Nabha, the proceedings against us would
be dropped. We replied that there was nothing to express regret
about, so far as we were concerned; it was for the administra-
tion to apologise to us. We were also not prepared to give any
undertaking.

About a fortnight after our arrest the two trials at last ended.
All this time had been taken up by the prosecution, for we were
not defending. Much of it had been wasted in long waits, for
every little difficulty that arose necessitated an adjournment or
a reference to some authority behind the scenes— probably the
English Administrator. On the last day when the prosecution
case was closed we handed in our written statements. The first
court adjourned and, to our surprise, returned a little later with
a bulky judgment written out in Urdu. Obviously this huge
judgment could not have been written during the interval. It
had been* prepared before our statements had been handed in.
The judgment was not read out; we were merely told that we
had been awarded the maximum sentence of six months for
breach of the order to leave Nabha territory.

In the conspiracy case we were sentenced the same day to

AN INTERLUDE AT NABHA II3

either eighteen months or two years, I forget which. This was to
be in addition to the sentence for six months. Thus we were
given in all either two years or two and a half years.

Right through our trial there had been any number of
remarkable incidents which gave us some insight into the re-
alities of Indian State administration, or rather the British
administration of an Indian State. The whole procedure was
farcical. Because of this I suppose no newspaperman or outsider
was allowed in court. The police did what they pleased, and
often ignored the judge or magistrate and actually disobeyed
his directions. The poor magistrate meekly put up with tnis,
but we saw no reason why we should do so. On several occasions
I had to stand up and insist on the police behaving and obeying
the magistrate. Sometimes there was an unseemly snatching of
papers by the police, and the magistrate, being incapable of
action or of introducing order in his own court, we had partly
to do his job! The poor magistrate was in an unhappy position.
He was afraid of the police, and he seemed to be a little
frightened of us, too, for our arrest had been noised in the
press. If this was the state of affairs when more or less pro-
minent politicians like us were concerned, what, I wonder, would
be the fate of others less known?

My father knew something of Indian States, and so he was
greatly upset at my unexpected arrest in Nabha. Only the fact
of arrest was known; little else in the way of news could leak
out. In his distress he even telegraphed to the Viceroy for news
of me. Difficulties were put in the way of his visiting me in
Nabha, but he was allowed at last to interview me in prison. He
could not be of any help to me, as I was not defending myself,
and I begged him to go back to Allahabad and not to worry. He
returned, but he left a young lawyer colleague of ours, Kapil
Dev Malaviya, in Nabha to watch the proceedings. Kapil Dev's
knowledge of law and procedure must have been considerably
augmented by his brief experience of the Nabha Courts. The
police tried to deprive him forcibly in open coijrt of some papers
that he had.

Most of the Indian States are well known for their back-
wardness and their semi-feudal conditions. They are personal
autocracies, devoid even of competence or benevolence. Many
a strange thing occurs there which never receives publicity. And
yet their very inefficiency lessens the evil in some ways and
lightens the burden on their unhappy people. For this is re-
flected in a weak executive, and it results in making even tyranny
and injustice inefficient. That does not make tyranny more

E

114 JAWAHARLAL NKHRU

bearable, but it does make it less far-reaching and widespread
The assumption of direct British control over an Indian State
has a curious result in changing this equilibrium. The semi-
feudal conditions are retained, autocracy is kept, the old laws
and procedure are still supposed to function, all the restrictions
on personal liberty and association and expression of opinion
(and these are all-embracing) continue, but one change is made
which alters the whole background. The executive becoirus
stronger and a measure of efficiency is introduced, and this leads
to a tightening-up of all the feudal and autocratic bonds. In
course of time the British administration would no doubt
change some of the archaic customs and methods, for they come
in the way of efficient government as well as commercial pene-
tration. But to begin with they take full advantage of them to
tighten their hold on the people who have now to put up not
only with feudalism and autocracy, but with an efficient enforce-
ment of them by a strong executive.

I saw something of this in Nabha. The State was under a
British Administrator, a member of the Indian Civil Service,
and he had the full powers of an autocrat, subject only to the
Government of India. And yet at every turn we were referred
to Nabha laws and procedure to justify the denial of the most
ordinary rights. We had to face a combination of feudalism
and the modern bureaucratic machine with the disadvantages of
of both and the advantages of neither.

So our trial was over and we had been sentenced. We did not
know what the judgments contained, but the solid fact of a long
sentence had a sobering effect. We asked for copies of the
judgments, and were told to apply formally for them.

That evening in gaol the Superintendent sent for us and
showed us an order of the Administrator under the Criminal
Procedure Code suspending our sentences. There was no con-
dition attached, and the legal result of that order was that the
sentences ended so far as we were concerned. The Superintendent
then produced a separate order called an Executive Order, also
issued by the Administrator, asking us to leave Nabha and not to
return to the State without special permission. I asked for the
copies of the two orders, but they were refused. We were then
escorted to, the railway station and released there. We did not
know a soul in Nabha, and even the city gates had been closed
for the night. We found that a train was leaving soon for
Ambala, and we took this. From Ambala I went on to Delhi and
Allahabad.

From Allahabad I wrote to the Administrator requesting him

AN INTERLUDE AT NABHA 115

to send me copies of his two orders, so that I might know exactly
what they were, also copies of the two judgments. He refused
to supply alny of these copies. I pointed out that I might decide
to file an appeal, but he persisted in his refusal. In spite of
repeated efforts I have never had the opportunity to read these
judgments, which sentenced me and my two colleagues to two
years or two and a half years. For aught I know, these sentences
may still be hanging over me, and may take effect whe|per
the Nabha authorities or the British Government so choose.

The three of us were discharged in this ‘ suspended ’ way, but
I could never find out what had happened to the fourth mem-
ber of the alleged conspiracy, the Sikh who had been tacked on
to us for the second trial. Very likely he was not discharged.
He had no powerful friends or public interest to help him and,
like many another person, he sank into the oblivion of a State
prison. He was not forgotten by us. We did what we could and
this was very little, and, I believe, the Gurdwara Committee
interested itself in his case also. We found out that he was one
of the old ‘ Komagata Maru ’ lot, and he had only recendy come
out of prison after a long period. The police do not believe in
leaving such people out, and so they tacked him on to the
trumped-up charge against us.

All three of us — Gidwani, Santanum and I — brought an un-
pleasant companion with us from our cell in Nabha Gaol. This
was the typhus germ, and each one of us had an attack of
typhoid. Mine was severe and for a while dangerous enough,
but it was the lightest of the three, and I was only bed-ridden
for about three or four weeks, but the other two were very
seriously ill for long periods.

There was yet another sequel to this Nabha episode. Probably
six months, or more, later Gidwani was acting as the Congress
representative in Amritsar, keeping in touch with the Sikh
Gurdwara Committee. The Committee sent a special jatha of
five hundred persons to Jaito, and Gidwani decided to accom-
pany it as an observer to the Nabha border. He had no intention
of entering Nabha territory. The jatha was fired on by the
police near the border, and many persons were, I believe, killed
and wounded. Gidwani went to the help of the wounded when
he was pounced upon by the police and taken away. No pro-
ceedings in court were taken against him. He was simply kept
in prison for the best part of a year when, utterly broken m
health, he was discharged.

Gidwani’s arrest ana confinement seemed to me to be a mon-
strous abuse of executive authority. I wrote to the Adminis-

Il6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

trator (who was still the same English member of the I.C.S.)
and asked him why Gidwani had been treated in this way. He
replied that Gidwani had been imprisoned because he had
broken the order not to enter Nabha territory without per-
mission. I challenged the legality of this as well as, of course,
the propriety of arresting a man who was giving succour to
the woundea, and I asked the Administrator to send me or pub-
lish* copy of the order in question. He refused to do so. I felt
inclined to go to Nabha myself and allow the Administrator
to treat me as he had treated Gidwani. Loyalty to a colleague
seemed to demand it. But many friends thought otherwise and
dissuaded me. I took shelter behind the advice of friends, and
made of it a pretext to cover my own weakness. For, after all,
it was my weakness and disinclination to go to Nabha Gaol again
that kept me away, and I have always felt a little ashamed of
thus deserting a colleague. As often with us all, discretion was
preferred to valour.

XVII

COCONADA AND M. MOHAMAD ALI

In December 1923 the annual session of the Congress was held
at Coconada in the South. Maulana Mohamad Ali was the
President and, as was his wont, he delivered an enormously long
presidential address. But it was an interesting one. He traced
the growth of political and communal feeling amon^ the Mos-
lems and showed how the famous Moslem deputation to the
Viceroy in 1908, under the leadership of the Aga Khan, which
led to the first official declaration in favour of separate elector-
ates, was a command performance and had been engineered by
the Government itself.

Mohamad Ali induced me, much against my will, to accept
the All-India Congress secretaryship for his year of president-
ship. I had no desire to accept executive responsibility, when
I was not clear about future policy. But I could not resist
Mohamad Ali, and both of us felt that some other secretary
might not be able to work as ‘harmoniously with the new Presi-
dent as I could. He had strong likes and dislikes, and I was
fortunate enough to be included in his 'likes'. A bond of
affection and mutual appreciation tied us to each other. He was
deeply and, as I considered, most irrationally religious, and I was
not, but I was attracted by his earnestness, his over-flowing
energy and keen intelligence. He had a nimble wit, but some-
times his devastating sarcasm hurt, and he lost many a friend
thereby. It was quite impossible for him to keep a clever remark
to himself, whatever the consequences might be.

We got on well together during his year of office, though we
had many little points of difference. I introduced in our A.I.C.C.
office a practice of addressing all our members by their names
only, without any prefixes or suffixes, honorific titles and the like.
There are so many of these in India — Mahatma, Maulana, Pan-
dit, Shaikh, Syed, Munshi, Moulvi, and latterly Sriyut and Shri,
and, of course, Mr. and Esquire — and they are so abundantly
and often unnecessarily used that I wanted to set a good example.
But I was not to have my way. Mohamed Ali sent me a frantic
telegram directing me ‘ as president ' to revert to our old prac-
tice and, in particular, always to address Gandhiji as Mahatma.

Another frequent subject for argument between us was the
Almighty. Mohamed Ali had an extraordinary way of bringing

ll 1

Il8 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

in some reference to God even in Congress resolutions, either by
way of expressing gratitude or some kind of prayer. I used to
protest, and then he would shout at me for my irreligion. And
yet, curiously enough, he would tell me later that he was quite
sure that I was fundamentally religious, in spite of my super-
ficial behaviour or my declarations to the contrary. I have often
wondered how much truth there was in his statement. Perhaps
it depends on what is meant by religion and religious.

I avoided discussing this subject of religion with him, because
I knew we would only irritate each other, and I might hurt him.
It is always a difficult subject to discuss with convinced believers
of any creed. With most Moslems it is probably an even harder
matter for discussion, since no latitude of thought is officially
permitted to them. Ideologically, theirs is a straight and narrow
path, and the believer must not swerve to the right or the
left. Hindus are somewhat different, though not always so. In
practice they may be very orthodox; they may, and do, indulge
in the most out-of-date, reactionary and even pernicious customs,
and yet they will usually be prepared to discuss the most radical
ideas about religion. I imagine the modem Arya Samajists have
not, as a rule, this wide intellectual approach.'Like the Moslems,
they follow their own straight and narrow path. There is a
certain philosophical tradition among the intelligent Hindus,
which, though it does not affect practice, does make a difference
to the ideological approach to a religious question. Partly, I
suppose, this is due to the wide and often conflicting variety
of opinions and customs that are included in the Hindu fold.
It has, indeed, often been remarked that Hinduism is hardly
a religion in the usual sense of the word. And yet, what amazing
tenacity it has got, what tremendous power of survival 1 One
may even be a professing atheist — as the old Hindu philosopher,
Charvaka, was— and yet no one dare say that he has ceased to
be a Hindu. Hinduism clings on to its children, almost despite
them. A Brahman I was bom, and a Brahman I seem to remain
whatever I might say or do in regard to religion or social cus-
tom. To the Indian world I am ‘Pandit ’ so and so, in spite of
my desire not to have this or any other honorific title attached
to my name. I remember meeting a Turkish scholar once in
Switzerland, to whom I had sent previously a letter of intro-
duction in which I had been referred to as ‘ Pandit Jawaharlal
Nehru \ He was. surprised and a little disappointed to see me
for, as he told me, the ‘ Pandit ’ had led him to expect a reverend
and scholarly gentleman of advanced years.

So Mohamad Ali and I did not discuss religion. But he did

COCON ADA AND M. MOHAMAD ALI 119

not possess the virtue of silence, and some years later (I think
this was in 1925 or early in 1926) he could not repress himself
on this subject any more. He burst out one day, as I was visiting
him in his house in Delhi, and said that he insisted on discussing
religion with me. I tried to dissuade him, pointing out that our
view-points were very different, and we were not likely to make
much impression on each other. But he was not going to be
diverted. “ We must have it out,” he said. " I suppose you think
that I am a fanatic. Well, I am going to show you that I am
not.” He told me that he had studied the subject of religion
deeply and extensively. He pointed out shelves full of books
on various religions, especially Islam and Christianity, and
including some modem books like H. G. Wells’s God, the
Invisible King. During the long years of his war-time intern-
ment, he had gone through the Quran repeatedly, and consulted
all the commentaries on it. As a result of this study he found
out, so he told me, that about 97 per cent, of what was contained
in the Quran was entirely reasonable, and could be justified
even apart from the Quran. The remaining 3 per cent, was
not prima facie acceptable to his reason. But was it more likely
that the Quran, which was obviously right in regard to 97 per
cent., was also right in regard to the remaining 3 per cent.,
than that his feeble reasoning faculty was right and the Quran
wrong? He came to the conclusion that the chances were
heavily in favour of the Quran, and so he accepted it as 100 per
cent, correct.

The logic of this argument was not obvious, but I had no
wish to argue. What followed really surprised me. Mohamad
Ali said that he was quite certain that if any one read the
Quran with an open and receptive mind, he would be convinced
of its truth. He knew (he added) that Bapu (Gandhiji) had
read it carefully, and he must, therefore, have been convinced
of the truth of Islam. But his pride of heart had kept him
from declaring this.

After his year of presidentship, Mohamad Ali gradually
drifted away from the Congress, or, perhaps, as he would have
put it, the Congress drifted away from him. The process was
a slow one, and he continued to attend Congress and A.I.C.C.
meetings, and take vigorous part in them for several years
more. But the rift widened, estrangement grew. Perhaps no
particular individual or individuals were to blame for this; it
was an inevitable result of certain objective conditions in the
country. But it was an unfortunate result, which hurt many
of us. For, whatever the differences on the communal question

130 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

might have been, there were very few differences on the political
issue. He was devoted to the idea of Indian independence. And
because of this common political outlook, it was always possible
to come to some mutually satisfactory arrangement with him
on the communal issue. There was nothing in common, poli-
tically, between him and the reactionaries who pose as the
champions of communal interests.

It was a misfortune for India that he left the country for
Europe in the summer of 1928. A great effort was then made
to solve the communal problem, ana it came very near success.
If Mohamad Ali had been here then, it is just conceivable that
matters would have shaped differently. But by the time he
came back the break had already taken place and, inevitably,
he found himself on the other side.

Two years later, in 1930, when large numbers of our people
were in prison and the Civil Disobedience movement was in full
swing, Mohamad Ali ignored the Congress decision, and at-
tended the Round Table Conference. I was hurt by his going.
I believe that in his own heart he was unhappy about it, and
there is enough evidence of this in his activities in London. He
felt that his real place was in the fight in India, not in the
futile conference chamber in London. And if he had returned
to his country he would, I feel sure, have joined that struggle.
Physically, he was a doomed man, and for years past the grip of
disease was tightening upon him. In London his overwhelming
anxiety to achieve, to do something worth while, when rest and
treatment was what he needed, hastened his end. The news of
his death came to me in Naini Prison as a blow.

I met him for the last time on the occasion of the Lahore
Congress in December 1929. He was not pleased with some
parts of my presidential address, and he criticised it vigorously.
He saw that the Congress was going ahead, and becoming poli-
tically more aggressive. He was aggressive enough himself, and,
being so, he disliked taking a back-seat and allowing others to
be in the front. He gave me solemn warning: “I warn you,
Jawahar, that your present colleagues will desert you. They
will leave you in the lurch in a crisis. Your own Congressmen
will send you to the gallows.” A dismal prophecy 1

The Coconada Congress, held in December 1923, had a special
interest for me, because the foundations of an all-India volun-
teer organisation, the Hindustani Seva Dal, were laid there.
There had been no lack of volunteer organisations even before,
both for organisational work and for gaol-going. But there was
little discipline, little cohesion. Dr. N. S. Hardiker conceived

COCONADA AND M. MOHAMAD ALI 121

the idea of having a well-disciplined all-India corps trained to do
national work under the general guidance of the Congress. He
pressed me to co-operate with him in this, and I gladly did so,
tor the idea appealed to me. The beginnings were made at
Coconada. We were surprised to find later how much opposition
there was to the Seva Dal among leading Congressmen. Some
said that this was a dangerous departure, as it meant introducing
a military element in the Congress, and the military arm might
over-power the civil authority! Others seemed to think that
the only discipline necessary was for the volunteer to obey orders
issued from above, and for the rest it was hardly desirable for
volunteers even to walk in step. At the back of the mind of some
was the notion that the idea of having trained and drilled
volunteers was somehow inconsistent with the Congress prin-
ciple of non-violence. Hardiker, however, devoted himself to
this task, and by the patient labour of years he demonstrated
how much more efficient and even non-violent our trained
volunteers could be.

Soon after my return from Coconada, in January 1924 , 1 had
a new kind of experience in Allahabad. I write from memory,
and I am likely to get mixed up about dates. But I think that
was the year of the Kumbh, or the Ardh-Kumbh, the great bath-
ing mela held on the banks of the Ganges at Allahabad. Vast
numbers of pilgrims usually turn up, and most of them bathe
at the confluence of the Ganges and the Jumna— the Triveni, it
is called, as the mythical Saraswati is also supposed to join the
other two. The Ganges river-bed is about a mile wide, but in
winter the river shrinks and leaves a wide expanse of sand
exposed, which is very useful for the camps of the pilgrims.
Within this river-bed, the Ganges frequently changes its course.
In 1924 the current of the Ganges was such that it was un-
doubtedly dangerous for crowds to bathe at the Triveni. With
certain precautions, and the control of the numbers bathing at
a time, the danger could be greatly lessened.

I was not at all interested in this question, as I did not pro-
pose to acquire merit by bathing in tne river on the auspicious
days. But I noticed in the Press that a controversy was going
on between Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya and the Provincial
Government, the latter (or the local authorities) having issued
orders prohibiting all bathing at the junction of the rivers.
This was objected to by Malaviyaji, as, from the religious point
of view, the whole point was to bathe at that confluence. The
Government was perfectly justified in taking precautions to pre-
vent accidents and possible serious loss of life, but, as usual,

122 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

it set about its work in the most wooden and irritating way
possible.

On the big day of the Kumbh, I went down to the river early
in the morning to see the mela, with no intention of bathing.
On arrival at the river bank, I learnt that Malaviyaji had sent
some kind of polite ultimatum to the District Magistrate, ask-
ing him for permission to bathe at the Triverti. Malaviyaji was
agitated, and the atmosphere was tense. The Magistrate refused
permission. Thereupon Malaviyaji decided to offer Satyagraha,
and, accompanied by about two hundred others, he marched
towards the junction of the rivers. I was interested in these
developments and, on the spur of the moment, joined the
Satyagraha band. A tremendous barrier had been erected right
across the open space, to keep away people from the confluence.
When we reached this high palisade, we were stopped by the
police, and a ladder we had was taken away from us. Being
non-violent Satyagrahis, we sat down peacefully on the sands
near the palisaae. And there we sat for the whole morning and
part of the afternoon. Hour after hour went by, the sun became
stronger, the sand hotter, and all of us hungrier. Foot and
mounted police stood by on both sides of us. I think the
regular cavalry was also there. Most of us grew impatient, and
said that something should be done. I believe the authorities
also grew impatient, and decided to force the pace. Some order
was riven to the cavalry, who mounted their horses. It struck
me (I do not know if I was right) that they were going to
charge us and drive us away in this fashion. I did not fancy
the idea of being chased by mounted troopers, and, anyhow,
I was fed up with sitting there. So I suggested to those sitting
near me that we might as well cross over the palisade, ana
I mounted it. Immediately scores of others did likewise, and
some even pulled out a few stakes, thus making a passage-way.
Somebody gave me a national flag, and I stuck it on top of the
palisade, where I continued to sit. I grew rather excited, and
thoroughly enjoyed myself, watching the people clambering up
or going through and the mounted troopers trying to push them
away. I must say that the cavalry did their work as harmlessly
as possible. They waved about their wooden staffs, and pushed
people with them, but refrained from causing much injury.
Faint memories of revolutionary barricades came to me.

At last I got down on the other side and, feeling very hot after
my exertions, decided to have a dip in the Ganges. On coming
back, I was amazed to find that Malaviyaji and many others
were still sitting on the other side of the palisade as before. But

COCONADA AND M. MOHAMAD ALI 133

the mounted troopers and the foot police now stood shoulder
to shoulder between the Satyagrahis and the palisade. So I
went (having got out by a roundabout way) and sat down again
near Malaviyaji. For some time we sat on, and I noticed that
Malaviyaji was greatly agitated; he seemed to be trying to con-
trol some strong emotion. Suddenly, without a hint to any one,
he dived in the most extraordinary way through the policemen
and the horses. For any one, that would have been a surprising
dive, but for an old ana physically weak person like Malaviyaji,
it was astounding. Anyhow, we all followed him; we all dived.
After some effort to keep us back the cavalry and the police
did not interfere. A little later they were withdrawn.

We half expected some proceedings to be taken against us
by the Government, but nothing of the kind happened. Govern-
ment probably did not wish to take any steps against Malaviyaji,
and so the smaller fry got off too.

XVIII

MY FATHER AND GANDHIJI

Early in 1924 there came suddenly the news of the serious
illness of Gandhiji in prison, followed by his removal to a
hospital and an operation. India was numbed with anxiety; we
held our breaths almost and waited, full of fear. The crisis
passed, and a stream of people began to reach Poona from all
parts of the country to see him. He was still in hospital, a
prisoner under guard, but he was permitted to see a limited
number of friends. Father and I visited him in the hospital.

He was not taken back from the hospital to the prison. As
he was convalescing, Government remitted the rest of his sen-
tence and discharged him. He had then served about two years
out of the six years to which he had been sentenced. He went
to Juhu, by the sea-side near Bombay, to recuperate.

Our family also trekked to Juhu, and established itself in a
tiny little cottage by the sea. We spent some weeks there, and
I had, after a long gap, a holiday after my heart, for I could
indulge in swimming and running and riding on the beach.
The main purpose of our stay, however, was not holiday-making,
but discussions with Gandhiji. Father wanted to explain to him
the Swarajist position, and to gain his passive co-operation at
least, if not his active sympathy. I was also anxious to have
some light thrown on the problems that were troubling me. I
wanted to know what his future programme of action was going
to be.

The Juhu talks, so far as the Swarajists were concerned, did
not succeed in winning Gandhiji, or even in influencing him to
any extent. Behind all the friendly talk, and the courteous
gestures, the fact remained that there was no compromise. They
agreed to differ, and statements to this effect were issued to the
Press.

I also returned from Juhu a little disappointed* for Gandhiji
did not resolve a single one of my doubts. As is usual with him,
he refused to look into the future, or lay down any long-distance
programme. We were to carry on patiently f serving ' the people,
working for the constructive and social reform programme of
the Congress, and await the time for aggressive activity. The
real difficulty, of course, was that even when that time came,
would not some incident like Chauri Chaura upset all our calcu-

MY FATHER AND CANDHIJI I2J

lations and again hold us up? To that he gave no answer then.
Nor was he at all definite in regard to our objective. Many of
us wanted to be clear in our own minds what we were driving at,
although the Congress did not then need to make a formal de-
claration on the subject. Were we going to hold out for indepen-
dence and some measure of social change, or were our leaders
going to compromise for something very much less? Only a few
months before, I had stressed independence in my presidential
address at the U.P. Provincial Conference. This Conference was
held in the autumn of 1923, a little after my return from Nabha.
I was just recovering from the illness with which Nabha Gaol had
presented me and I was unable to attend the Conference; but my
address, written under fever in bed, went to it.

While some of us wanted to make the issue of independence
clear in the Congress, our friends the Liberals had drifted so far
from us — or perhaps the drifting had been done by us — that they
publicly gloried in the pomp and power of the Empire, although
that Empire might treat our countrymen as a doormat, and its
dominions keep our countrymen as helots or refuse them all
admittance. Mr. Sastri had become an Imperial Envoy, and Sir
Tej Bahadur Sapru had proudly declared at the Imperial Con-
ference in London in 1923 : “ I can say with pride that it is my
country that makes the Empire imperial.”

A vast ocean seemed to separate us from these Liberal leaders;
we lived in different worlds, we spoke in different languages, and
our dreams — if they ever had dreams— had nothing in common.
Was it not necessary then to be clear and precise about our goal?

But such thoughts were then confined to a few. Precision u not
loved by most people, especially in a nationalist movement which
by its very nature is vague and somewhat mystical. In the early
months of 1924, public attention was largely concentrated on the
Swarajists in the Legislative Assembly and the Provincial Coun-
cils. What were these groups going to do after their brave talk
about “opposition from within” and wrecking the Councils?
Some fine gestures took place. The budget for the year was re-
jected by the Assembly; a resolution demanding a round-table
discussion to settle the terms of Indian freedom was passed. The
Bengal Council, under Deshbandhu’s leadership, also bravely
voted down supplies. But both in the Assembly and in the pro-
vinces, the Viceroy or the Governor certified the budgets and
they became law. There were some speeches, some excitement
in the legislatures, a momentary feeling of triumph among the
Swarajists, headlines in the Press, and nothing more. What else
could they do? They could repeat their tactics, but the novelty

126

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

wore off, the excitement vanished, and the public mind grew
accustomed to budgets and laws being certified by the Viceroy
or Governor. The next step, of course, was beyond the compe-
tence of the Swarajists inside the Councils. It lay outside the
Council chamber.

Some time in the middle of that year (1924) a meeting of the
All-India Congress Committee was held at Ahmedabad. At this
meeting, unexpectedly, a sharp conflict appeared between
Gandhiji and the Swarajists, and there were some dramatic situa-
tions. The initiative was taken by Gandhiji. He proposed a fun-
damental alteration in the Congress constitution, changing the
franchise and the rules for membership. So far, every one who
subscribed to the first article of the Congress constitution, which
laid down the objective of Swaraj and peaceful methods, and

f >aid four annas could become a member. He now wanted to
imit membership to those who gave a certain amount of self-
spun yarn instead of the four annas. This was a serious limita-
tion of the franchise, and the A.I.C.C. was certainly not com-
petent to do this. But Gandhiji has seldom cared for the letter
of a constitution when this has come in his way. I was shocked
at what I considered a violence to our constitution, and I offered
to the Working Committee my resignation from the secretary-
ship. But some new developments took place and I did not press
it. In the A.I.C.C. the proposal was fiercely resisted by my father
and Mr. Das, and ultimately, to show their entire disapproval of
it r they marched out with a goodly number of their followers
just before the voting. Even then some people, opposed to the
resolution, still remained present in the Committee. The resolu-
tion was passed by a majority, but ultimately it was withdrawn.
For Gandhiji had been tremendously affected by the walk-out
of the Swarajists and the unbending attitude on this subject of
Deshbandhu and my father. He was emotionally worked up,
and a chance remark of a member upset him and he broke
down. It was obvious that he had been cut to the quick. He
addressed the Committee in a most feeling manner and reduced
a number of members to tears. It was a moving and extra-
ordinary sight. 1

1 The above account was written in prison from memory. I find
now that my memory was defective and I had overlooked an impor-
tant aspect of the A.I.C.C. discussions, thus giving a wrong impres-
sion of what happened. What moved Gandhiji was a resolution
relating to a young Bengali terrorist (Gopinath Saha) which was
moved in the meeting and was ultimately lost. The resolution, so
far as I remember, condemned his deed but expressed sympathy for

MY FATHER AND GANDHIJI I27

I could never make out why he was so keen on that exclusive
form of spinning franchise then, for he must have known that it
would be bitterly opposed. Probably he wanted the Congress to
consist only of people who were believers in his constructive
programme of Khadi, etc., and was prepared to drive out the
others or make them conform. But although he had the majority
with him, he weakened in his resolve and began to compromise
with the others. During the next three or four months, to my
amazement, he changed several times on this question. He
seemed to be completely at sea, unable to find his bearings. That
was the one idea that I did not associate with him, and hence
my surprise. The question itself was not, so it seemed to me, a
very vital one. The idea of labour being made the qualification
for franchise was a very desirable one, but in the restricted form
in which it came up, it lost some of its meaning.

I came to the conclusion that Gandhiji’s difficulties had been
caused because he was moving in an unfamiliar medium. He was
superb in his special field of Satyagrahic direct action, and his
instinct unerringly led him to take the right steps. He was also

his motives. More than the resolution itself, the speeches accom-
panying it distressed Gandhiji, and it was this feeling that many
people in the Congress were not serious about its profession of non-
violence that upset him. Writing of this meeting in Young India
soon after, he said : “ I had a bare majority always for the four reso-
lutions. But it must be regarded by me as a minority. The house
was fairly evenly divided. The Gopinath Saha resolution clinched
the issue. The speeches, the result and the scenes I witnessed after
were a perfect eye-opener. . . . Dignity vanished after the Gopinath
Saha resolution. It was before this house that I had to put my last
resolution. As the proceedings went on, I must have become more
and more serious. I felt like running away from the oppressive scene.
I dreaded having to move a resolution in my charge. ... I do not
know that I have made it clear that no speaker had any malice in
him. What preyed upon my mind was the fact of unconscious
irresponsibility and disregard of the Congress creed or policy of non-
violence. . . . That there were seventy Congress representatives to
support the resolution was a staggering revelation." This incident,
with Gandhiji’s commentary on it, is very significant, as it shows
the extreme importance attached by Ganahiji to non-violence, and
the reactions on him of any attempt, even though this might be
unconscious and indirect, to challenge it. Much that he has subse-
quently done is probably due fundamentally to some such reactions.
Non-violence has been, and is, the sheet-anchor of his policy and
activities.

128 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

very good in working himself and making others work quietly
for social reform among the masses. He could understand abso-
lute war or absolute peace. Anything in between he did not
appreciate. The Swarajist programme, of struggle and opposi-
tion inside Councils, left him cold. If a person wants to go to
the legislature, let him do so with the object of co-operating
with the authorities for better legislation, etc., and not for the
sake of opposition. If he does not want to do so, let him stay
out. The Swarajists adopted neither of these positions, and hence
his difficulty in dealing with them.

Ultimately he adjusted himself to them. The spinning fran-
chise became an alternative form, the old four-anna franchise
remaining. He almost blessed the Swarajist work in the legis-
latures, but for himself he kept severely aloof. It was said that
he had retired from politics, and the British Government and its
officers believed that his popularity was waning and that he was
a spent force. Das and Nehru, it was said, had driven Gandhi
into the background; they seemed to dominate the political
scene. Such remarks, with suitable variations, have been repeated
many times in the course of the last fifteen years, and they have
demonstrated every time how singularly ignorant our rulers are
about the feelings of the Indian people. Ever since Gandhiji
appeared on the Indian political scene, there has been no going
back in popularity for him, so far as the masses are concerned.
There has been a progressive increase in his popularity, and this
process still continues. They may not carry out his wishes, for
human nature is often weak, but their hearts are full of goodwill
for him. When objective conditions help they rise in huge mass
movements, otherwise they lie low. A leader does not create a
mass movement out of nothing, as if by a stroke of the magi-
cian’s wand. He can take advantage of the conditions themselves
when they arise; he can prepare for them, but not create them.

But it is true to say that there is a waning and a waxing of
Gandhiji’s popularity among the intelligentsia. In moments of
forward-going enthusiasm they follow him; when the inevitable
reaction comes they grow critical. But even so the great majority
of them bow down to him. Partly this has been due to the
absence of any other effective programme. The Liberals and
various groups, resembling them, like the Responsivists, do not
count; those who believe in terroristic violence are completely
out of court in the modem world and are considered ineffective
and out of date. ,The socialist programme is still little known,
and it frightens the upper-class members of the Congress.

After a brief political estrangement in the middle of 1924, the

MY FATHER AND CANDHIJI

129

old relations between my father and Gandhiji were resumed and
they grew even more cordial. However much they differed from
one another, each had the warmest regard and respect for the
other. What was it that they so respected? Father has given us
a glimpse into his mind in a brief Foreword he contributed to a
booklet called Thought Currents, containing selections from
Gandhiji's writings :

u I have heard,” he writes, “ of saints and supermen, but have
never had the pleasure of meeting them, and must confess to a
feeling of scepticism about their real existence. I believe in men
and things manly. The 4 Thought Currents 9 preserved in this
volume have emanated from a man and are things manly. They
are illustrative of two great attributes of human nature — Faith
and Strength. . . .

“ 4 What is all this going to lead to? ’ asks the man with neither
faith nor strength in him. The answer ‘ to victory or death ' does
not appeal to him. . . . Meanwhile the humble and lowly figure
standing erect ... on the firm footholds of faith unsnakable
and strength unconquerable, continues to send out to his country*
men his message of sacrifice and suffering for the motherland.
That message finds echo in millions of hearts. . . .”

And he finishes up by quoting Swinburne’s lines :

Have we not men with us royal,

Men the masters of things? . . .

Evidently he wanted to stress the fact that he did not admire
Gandhiji as a saint or a Mahatma, but as a man. Strong and
unbending himself, he admired strength of spirit in him. For it
was clear that this little man of poor physique had something
of steel in him, something rock-like which did not yield to
physical powers, however great they might be. And in spite of
his unimpressive features, his loin-cloth and bare body, there was
a royalty and a kingliness in him which compelled a willing
obeisance from others. Consciously and deliberately meek and
humble, yet he was full of power and authority, and he knew it,
and at times he was imperious enough, issuing tommands which
had to be obeyed. His calm, deep eyes would hold one and
gently probe into the depths; his voice, clear and limpid, would
purr its way into the heart and evoke an emotional response.
Whether his audience consisted of one person or a thousand, the

charm and magnetism of the man passed on to it, and each one
had a feeling of communion with the speaker. This feeling had
little to do with the mind, though the appeal to the mind was
not wholly ignored. But mind and reason definitely had second

130 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

place. This process of ‘ spell-binding ’ was not brought about by
oratory or the hypnotism of silken phrases. The language was
always simple and to the point and seldom was an unnecessary
word used. It was the utter sincerity of the man and his person-
ality that gripped; he gave the impression of tremendous inner
reserves of power. Perhaps also it was a tradition that had grown
up about him which helped in creating a suitable atmosphere.
A stranger, ignorant of tnis tradition and not in harmony with
the surroundings, would probably not have been touched by
that spell, or, at any rate, not to the same extent. And yet one
of the most remarkable things about Gandhiji was, and is, his
capacity to win over, or at least to disarm, his opponents.

Gandhiji had little sense of beauty or artistry in man-made
objects, though he admired natural beauty. The Taj Mahal was
for him an embodiment of forced labour and little more. His
sense of smell was feeble. And yet in his own way he had dis-
covered the an of living and had made of his life an anistic
whole. Every gesture had meaning and grace, without a false
touch. There were no rough edges or sharp comers about him,
no trace of vulgarity or commonness, in which, unhappily, our
middle classes excel. Having found an inner peace, he radiated
it to others and marched through life’s tortuous ways with firm
and undaunted step.

How different was my father from himl But in him too there
was strength of personality and a measure of kingliness, and the
lines of Swinburne he had quoted would apply to him also. In
any gathering in which he was present he would inevitably be
the centre and the hub. Whatever the place where he sat at table
it would become, as an eminent English judge said later, the
head of the table. He was neither meek nor mild, and, again
unlike Gandhiji, he seldom spared those who differed from him.
Consciously imperious, he evoked great loyalty as well as bitter
opposition. It was difficult to feel neutral about him; one had to
like him or dislike him. With a broad forehead, tight lips and a
determined chin, he had a marked resemblance to the busts of
the Roman Emperors in the museums in Italy. Many friends in
Italy who saw his photograph with us remarked on this resem-
blance. In later years especially, when his head was covered with
silver hair— unlike me, he kept his hair to the end— there was a
magnificence about him and a grand manner, which is sadly to
seek in this world of to-day. I suppose I am partial to him, but
I miss his noble presence in' a world full of pettiness and weak-
ness. I look round in vain for that grand manner and splendid
strength that was his.

MY FATHER AND GANDHIJI 131

I remember showing Gandhiji a photograph of father’s some
time in 1924, when he was having a tug-of-war with the Swaraj
Party. In this photograph father had no moustache, and, till
then, Gandhiji had always seen him with a fine moustache. He
started almost on seeing this photograph and gazed long at it,
for the absence of the moustache brought out the hardness of
the mouth and the chin, and he said, with a somewhat dry smile,
that now he realised what he had to contend against. Tne face
was softened, however, by the eyes and by the lines that frequent
laughter had made. But sometimes the eyes glittered.

Father had taken to the work in the Assembly like a duck to
water. It suited his legal and constitutional training, and, unlike
Satyagraha and its offshoots, he knew the rules of this game.
He kept his party strictly disciplined and even induced other
groups and individuals to give support. But soon he had to face
difficulties with his own people. During the early days of the
Swaraj Party, it had to contend against the No-changers in the
Congress, and many undesirables were taken in to increase its
strength within the Congress. Then came the elections, and these
demanded funds which had to come from the rich. So these rich
folk had to be kept in good humour, and some were even asked
to become Swarajist candidates. “ Politics,” says an American
socialist (quoted by Sir Stafford Cripps), “ is the gentle art of
getting votes from the poor and campaign funds Horn the rich
by promising to protect each from the other.”

All these elements weakened the Party from the very begin-
ning. Work in the Assembly and the Councils necessitated daily
compromises with other and more moderate groups, and no
crusading spirit or principles could long survive this. Gradually a
decline in the discipline and temper of the Party set in, and the
weaker elements and the opportunists began to give trouble. The
Swaraj Party had invaded the legislatures with the declared
object of “ opposition from within ”. But two could play at this
game, and the Government decided to have a hand in it by
creating opposition and disruption within the ranks of the
Swarajists. High office and patronage in innumerable ways was
placed in the way of the weaker brethren. They had just to pick
them up. Their ability and their qualities of statesmanship and
sweet reasonableness were praised. A pleasant and agreeable
atmosphere was created round them — so different from the dust
and tumult of the field and market-place.

The general tone of the Swarajists went down. Individuals
here and there began to slip away to the other side. My father
shouted and thundered and talked about cutting ' the diseased

132 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

limb But this threat has no great effect when the limb is eager
to walk away by itself Some Swarajists became ministers, some
became Executive Councillors in the provinces later. A number
formed a separate group calling themselves ' Responsivists 9 or
‘Responsive Co-ooerators *, a name originally used by Loka-
manya Tilak in entirely different circumstances. As used now it
seemed to mean : take a job when you have the chance and make
the best of it. The Swaraj Party carried on in spite of these
defections, but father and Mr. Das became a little disgusted with
the turn of events and somewhat weary of what seemed to be
their profitless work in the legislatures. To add to this weariness
of spirit was the growing Hindu-Muslim tension in North India,
leading occasionally to riots.

Some Congressmen who had been to prison with us in 1921
and 1922 were now ministers and holders of high offices in the
Government. In 1921 we had had the satisfaction of being de-
clared unlawful and being sentenced to prison by a Government
of which some Liberals (also old-time Congressmen) were mem-
bers. In future we were going to have the additional solace of
being imprisoned and outlawed by some of our own old col-
leagues in some provinces at least. These new ministers and
Executive councillors were far more efficient for this job than the
Liberals had been. They knew u& and our weaknesses and how
to exploit them; they were well acquainted with our methods;
and they had some experience of crowds and the feelings of
the masses. Like the Nazis, they had flirted with revolutionary
methods before changing sides, and could apply this knowledge
to suppress more efficiently their old colleagues of the Congress
than either the official hierarchy or the Liberal ministers in their
ignorance could have done.

In December 1924 the Congress session was held at Belgaum,
and Gandhi ji was President. For him to become the Congress
President was something in the nature of an anticlimax, for he
had long been the permanent super-president. I did not like his
presidential address. It struck me as being very uninspiring. At
the end of the session I was again elected, at Gandhiji’s instance,
the working secretary of the A.I.C.C. for the next year. In spite
of my own wishes in the matter, I was gradually becoming a
semi-permanent secretary of the Congress.

In the summer of 1925 my father was unwell and his asthma
troubled him greatly. He went with the family to Dalhousie in
the Himalayas, and I joined him for a short while later. We
made a little trip from Dalhousie to Chamba in the interior of
the Himalayas. It was a June day when we arrived, and we were

MY FATHER AND GANDHIJI 133

a little tired after our journey by mountain paths. A telegram
cAme. It told us that Chitta Ranjan Das had died. For a long
time father sat still without a word, bowed down with grief. It
was a cruel blow to him, and I had seldom seen him so affected.
The one person who had grown to be a closer and dearer comrade
to him than any one else had suddenly gone and left him to
shoulder the burden alone. That burden had been growing, and
both he and Deshbandhu had grown aweary of it and of the
weakness of their people. Deshbandhu’s last speech at the
Faridpur Conference was the speech of a person who is a little
tired.

We left Chamba the next morning and tramped back over the
mountains to Dalhousie, and from there to the distant railhead
by car, and then to Allahabad and Calcutta.

XIX

COMMUNALISM RAMPANT

My illness in the autumn of 1923, after my return from Nabha
prison, when I had a bout with the typhus germ, was a novel
experience for me. I was unused to illness or lying in bed with
fever or physical weakness. I was a little proud of my health,
and I objected to the general valetudinarian attitude that was
fairly common in India. My youth and good constitution pulled
me through, but, after the crisis was over, I lay long in bed in an
enfeebled condition, slowly working my way to health. And
during this period I felt a strange detachment from my surround-
ings and my day-to-day work, and I viewed all this from a
distance, apart. I felt as if I had extricated myself from the trees
and could see the wood as a whole; my mind seemed clearer and
more peaceful than it had previously been. I suppose this experi-
ence, or something like it, is common enough to those who have
passed through severe illness. But for me it was in the nature of
a spiritual experience — I use the word not in a narrow religious
sense — and it influenced me considerably. I felt lifted out of the
emotional atmosphere of our politics and could view the objec-
tives and the springs that had moved me to action more clearly.
With this clarification came further questioning for which I had
no satisfactory answer. But more and more I moved away from
the religious outlook on life and politics. I cannot write much
about that experience of mine; it was a feeline I cannot easily
express. It was eleven years ago, and only a faded impression
of it remains in the mind now. But I remember well that it
had a lasting effect on me and on my way of thinking, and for
the next two years or more I went about my work with some-
thing of that air of detachment.

Partly, no doubt, this was due to developments which were
wholly outside my control and with which I did not fit in. I have
referred already to some of the political changes. Far more im-
portant was tne progressive deterioration of Hindu-Muslim
relations, in North India especially. In the bigger cities a number
of riots took place, brutal and callous in the extreme. The
atmosphere* of distrust and anger bred new causes of dispute
which most of us had never heard of before. Previously a fruitful
source of discord had been the question of cow sacrifice, especi-
ally on the Bakr-id day. There was also tension when Hindu and

>34

COMMUN ALI6M RAMPANT 135

Muslim festivals clashed, as, for instance, when the Moharram
fell on the days when the Ram Lila was celebrated. The Mohar-
ram revived the memory of a past tragedy and brought sorrow
and tears; the Ram Lila was a festival of joy and the celebration
of the victory of good over evil. The two did not fit in. For-
tunately they came together only once in about thirty years, for
the Ram Lila is celebrated according to the solar calendar at a
fixed time of the year, while the Moharram moves round the
seasons, following a lunar year.

But now a fresh cause of friction arose, something that was
ever present, ever recurring. This was the auestion of music
before mosques. Objection was taken by the Muslims to music
or any noise whicn interfered with their prayers in their
mosques. In every city there are many mosques, and five times
every day they have prayers, and there is no lack of noises and
processions (including marriage and funeral processions). So the
chances of friction were always present. In particular, objection
was taken to processions and noises at the time of the sunset
prayer in the mosques. As it happens, this is just the time when
evening worship takes place in the Hindu temples, and gongs
are sounded and the temple bells ring. Arti , this is called, and
arti-namaz disputes now assumed major proportions.

It seems amazing that a question which could be settled with
mutual consideration for each other’s feelings and a little adjust-
ment should give rise to great bitterness and rioting. But reli-
gious passions have little to do with reason or consideration or
adjustments, and they are easy to fan when a third party in
control can play off one group against another.

One is apt to exaggerate the significance of these riots in a few
northern cities. Most of the towns and cities and the whole of
rural India carried on peacefully, little affected by these happen-
ings, but the newspapers naturally gave great prominence to
every petty communal disturbance. It is perfectly true, however,
that communal tension and bitterness increased in the city
masses. This was pushed on by the communal leaders at the
top, and it was reflected in the stiffening up of the political
communal demands. Because of the communal tension, Muslim
political reactionaries, who had taken a back seat during all these
years of non-co-operation, emerged into prominence, helped in
the process by the British Government. From day to day new
and more far-reaching communal demands appeared on their
behalf, striking at the very root of national unity and Indian
freedom. On the Hindu side also political reactionaries were
among the principal communal leaders, and, in the name of

136 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

guarding Hindu interests, they played definitely into the hands
of the Government. They did not succeed, and indeed they
could not, however much they tried by their methods, in gaining
any of the points on which they laid stress ; they succeeded only
in raising the communal temper of the country.

The Congress was in a quandary. Sensitive to and represen-
tative of national feeling as it was, these communal passions were
bound to affect it. Many a Congressman was a communalist
under his national cloak. But the Congress leadership stood firm
and, on the whole, refused to side with either communal party,
or rather with any communal group, for now the Sikhs and other
smaller minorities were also loudly voicing their particular
demands. Inevitably this led to denunciation from both the
extremes.

Long ago, right at the commencement of non-co-operation or
even earlier, Gandhiji had laid down his formula for solving the
communal problem. According to him, it could only be solved
by goodwill and the generosity of the majority group, and so he
was prepared to agree to everything that the Muslims might
demand. He wanted to win them over, not to bargain with them.
With foresight and a true sense of values he grasped at the
reality that was worth while; but others who thought they knew
the market price of everything, and were ignorant of the true
value of anything, stuck to the methods of the market-place.
They saw the cost of purchase with painful clearness, but they
had no appreciation of the worth of the article they might have
bought.

It is easy to criticise and blame others, and the temptation is
almost irresistible to find some excuse for the failure of one’s
plans. Was not the failure due to the deliberate thwarting of
others, rather than to an error in one’s own way of thinking or
acting? We cast the blame on the Government and the com-
munalists, the latter blame the Congress. Of course, there was
thwarting of us, deliberate and persistent thwarting, by the
Government and their allies. Of course, British governments in
the past and the present have based their policy on creating
divisions in our ranks. Divide and rule has always been the way
of empires, and the measure of their success in this policy has
been also the measure of their superiority over those whom they
thus exploit. We cannot complain of this or, at any rate, we
oug;ht not to be surprised at it. To ignore it and not to provide
against it is in itself a mistake in one’s thought.

How are we to provide against it? Not surely by bargaining
and haggling and generally adopting the tactics of the market-

COMMUNALISM RAMPANT

*37

E lace, for whatever offer we make, however high our bid might
e, there is always a third party which can bid higher and, what
is more, give substance to its words. If there is no common
national or social outlook, there will not be common action
against the common adversary. If we think in terms of the
existing political and economic structure and merely wish to
tamper with it here and there, to reform it, to ‘Indianise’ it,
then all real inducement for joint action is lacking. The object
then becomes one of sharing in the spoils, and the third and
controlling party inevitably plays the dominant rdle and hands
out its gifts to the prize boys of its choice. Only by thinking in
terms of a different political framework — and even more so a
different social framework — can we build up a stable foundation
for joint action. The whole idea underlying the demand for in-
dependence was this: to make people realise that we were
struggling for an entirely different political structure and not just
an Indianised edition (with British control behind the scenes) of
the present order, which Dominion Status signifies. Political in*
pendence meant, of course, political freedom only, and did not
include any social change or economic freedom for the masses.
But it did signify the removal of the financial and economic
chains which bind us to the City of London, and this would
have made it easier for us to change the social structure. So I
thought then. I would add now that I do not think it is likely
that real political freedom will come to us by itself. When it
comes it will bring a large measure of social freedom also.

But almost all our leaders continued to think within the narrow
steel frame of the existing political, and of course the social,
structure. They faced every problem — communal or constitu-
tional— with this background and, inevitably, they played into
the hands of the British Government, which controlled com-
pletely that structure. They could not do otherwise, for their
whole outlook was essentially reformist and not revolutionary,
in spite of occasional experiments with direct action. But the
time had gone by when any political or econoipic or communal
problem in India could be satisfactorily solved by reformist
methods. Revolutionary outlook and planning and revolutionary
solutions were demanded by the situation. But there was no one
among the leaders to offer these.

The want of clear ideals and objectives in our struggle for
freedom undoubtedly helped the spread of communalism. The
masses saw no clear connection between their day-to-day suffer-
ings and the fight for swaraj. They fought well enough at times
by instinct, but that was a feeble weapon which could be easily

138 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

blunted or even turned aside for other purposes. There was no
reason behind it, and in periods of reaction it was not difficult
for the communalists to play upon this feeling and exploit it in
the name of religion. It is nevertheless extraordinary how the
bourgeois classes, both among the Hindus and the Muslims, suc-
ceeded, in the sacred name of religion, in getting a measure of
mass sympathy and support for programmes and demands
which had absolutely nothing to do with the masses, or even the
lower middle class. Every one of the communal demands put
forward by any communal group is, in the final analysis, a
demand for jobs, and these jobs could only go to a handful of
the upper middle class. There is also, of course, the demand for
special and additional seats in the legislatures, as symbolising
political power, but this too is looked upon chiefly as the power
to exercise patronage. These narrow political demands, benefit-
ing at the most a small number of the upper middle classes, and
often creating barriers in the way of national unity and progress,
were cleverly made to appear the demands of the masses of that
particular religious group. Religious passion was hitched on to
them in order to hide their barrenness.

In this way political reactionaries came back to the political
field in the guise of communal leaders, and the real explanation
of the various steps they took was not so much their communal
bias as their desire to obstruct political advance. We could only
expect opposition from them politically, but still it was a pecu-
liarly distressing feature of an unsavoury situation to find to
what lengths they would go in this respect. Muslim communal
leaders said the most amazing things and seemed to care not at
all for Indian nationalism or Indian freedom; Hindu communal
leaders, though always speaking apparently in the name of
nationalism, had little to do with it in practice and, incapable of
any real action, sought to humble themselves before the Govern-
ment, and did that too in vain. Both agreed in condemning
socialistic and such-like “ subversive ” movements ; there was a
touching unanimity in regard to any proposal affecting vested
interests. Muslim communal leaders said and did many things
harmful to political and economic freedom, but as a group and
individually they conducted themselves before the Government
and the public with some dignity. That could hardly be said of
the Hindu communal leaders.

There were many Muslims in the Congress. Their numbers
were large, and included many able men, and the best-known
and most popular Muslim leaders in India were in it. Many of
those Congress Muslims organised themselves into a group called

COMMUNALISM RAMPANT 1 39

the ' Nationalist Muslim Party ’, and they combated the com*
munal Muslim leaders. They did so with some success to begin
with, and a large part of the Muslim intelligentsia seemed to be
with them. But they were all upper middle-class folk, and there
were no dynamic personalities amongst them. They took to their
professions and their businesses, and lost touch with the masses.
Indeed, they never went to their masses. Their method was one
of drawing-room meetings and mutual arrangements and pacts,
and at this game their rivals, the communal leaders, were greater
adepts. Slowly the latter drove the Nationalist Muslims from
one position to another, made them give up, one by one, the
principles for which they stood. Always the Nationalist Muslims
tried to ward off further retreat and to consolidate their position
by adopting the policy of the ‘ lesser evil ’, but always this led
to another retreat and another choice of the ‘ lesser evil ’. There
came a time when they had nothing left to call their own, no
fundamental principle on which they stood except one, and
that had been the very sheet-anchor of their group: joint
electorates. But again the policy of the lesser evil presented the
fatal choice to them, and they emerged from the ordeal minus
that sheet-anchor. So to-day they stand divested of every shred
of principle or practice on the basis of which they formed their
group, and which they had proudly nailed to their masthead —
of everything, all, except their name I

The collapse and elimination of the Nationalist Muslims as
a group — as individuals they are, of course, still important
leaders of the Congress — forms a pitiful story. It took many
years, and the last chapter has only been written this year
(1934). In 1923 and subsequent years they were a strong group,
and they took up an aggressive attitude against the Muslim
communaluts. Indeed, on several occasions, Gandhiji was pre-
pared to agree to some of the latter’s demands, much as he
disliked them, but his own colleagues, the Muslim Nationalist
leaders, prevented this and were bitter in their opposition.

During the middle ’twenties many attempts were made to
settle the communal problem by mutual talks and discussions —
'Unity Conferences’ they were called. The most notable of
these was the conference convened by M. Mohamad Ali, the
Congress president for the year, in 1924, and held in Delhi under
the shadow of Gandhiji’s twenty-one-day fast. There were many
earnest and well-meaning people at these conferences, and they
tried hard to come to an agreement. Some pious and good
resolutions were passed, but the basic problem remained un-
solved. It could not be solved by those conferences, for a solution

140 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

could not be reached by a majority of votes but by virtual
unanimity, and there were always extremists of various groups
present whose idea of a solution was a complete submission of
all others to their views. Indeed, one was led to doubt whether
some of the prominent communalists desired a solution at all.
Many of them were political reactionaries, and there was no
common ground between them and those who desired radical
political change.

But the real difficulties went deeper and were not just the
result of individual back-sliding. The Sikhs were now loudly
advancing their communal demands, and an extraordinarily
complicated triangle was created in the Punjab. The Punjab,
indeed, became the crux of the matter, and the fear of each
group of the others produced a background of passion and
prejudice. In some provinces agrarian trouble— Hindu zamin-
dars and Muslim tenants in Bengal — appeared under communal
guise. In the Punjab and Sind, the banker and richer classes
generally were Hindus, the debtors were Muslim agriculturists,
and all the feeling of the impoverished debtors against the
creditor, out for his pound of flesh, went to swell the com-
munal tide. As a rule, the Muslims were the poorer com-
munity, and the Muslim communal leaders managed to exploit
the antagonism of the have-nots against the haves for communal
purposes, though, strangely enough, these purposes had nothing
whatever to do with the betterment of those have-nots. Because
of this, these Muslim communal leaders did represent some
mass elements, and gained strength thereby. The Hindu com-
munal leaders, in an economic sense, represented the rich banker
and professional classes; they had little backing among the
Hindu masses although, on occasions, they had their sympathy.

The problem, therefore, is getting a little mixed up with
economic groupings, though unhappily this fact is not realised.
It may develop into more obvious conflicts between economic
classes, but if that time comes, the present-day communal
leaders, representing the upper classes of all groups, will hasten
to patch up their differences in order to face jointly the common
class foe. Even under present conditions it should not be dif-
ficult to arrive at a political solution, but only if, and it is a big
if, the third party was not present.

The Delhi Unity Conference of 1924 was hardly over when a
Hindu-Muslim riot broke out in Allahabad. It was not a big
riot, as such riots go, in so far as casualties were concerned, but
it was painful to nave these troubles in one’s home town. I
rushed back with others from Delhi to find that the actual riot-

COMMUNALISM RAMPANT I41

ing was over; but the aftermath, in the shape of bad blood
and court cases, lasted a long time. I forget why the riot had
begun. That year, or perhaps later, there was also some trouble
over the Ram Lila celebrations at Allahabad. Probably because
of restrictions about music before mosques, these celebrations,
involving huge processions as they did, were abandoned as a
protest. For about eight years now the Ram Lila has not been
held in Allahabad, and the greatest festival of the year for hun-
dreds of thousands in the Allahabad district has almost become
a painful memory. How well I remember my visits to it when
I was a child ! How excited we used to get ! And the vast crowds
that came to see it from all over the district and even from other
towns. It was a Hindu festival, but it was an open-air affair,
and Muslims also swelled the crowds, and there was joy and
lightheartedness everywhere. Trade flourished. Many years
afterwards when, as a grown-up, I visited it I was not excited,
and the procession and the tableaux rather bored me. My
standards of art and amusement had gone up. But even then,
I saw how the great crowds appreciated and enjoyed the show.
It was carnival time for them. And now, for eight or nine years,
the children of Allahabad, not to mention the grown-ups, have
had no chance of seeing this show and having a bright day of
joyful excitement in the dull routine of their lives. And all be-
cause of trivial disputes and conflicts! Surely religion and the
spirit of religion have much to answer for. What kill-joys they
have beenl

XX

MUNICIPAL WORK

For two years I carried on, but with an ever-increasing reluc-
tance, with the Allahabad Municipality. My term of office as
chairman was for three years. Before the second year was well
begun, I was trying to rid myself of the responsibility. I had
liked the work, and given a great deal of my time and thought
to it. I had met with a measure of success and gained the good-
will of all my colleagues. Even the Provincial Government had
overcome its political dislike of me to the extent of commend-
ing some of my municipal activities. And yet I found myself
hedged in, obstructed and prevented from doing anything really
worth while.

It was not deliberate obstruction on anybody's part; indeed,
I had a surprising amount of willing co-operation. But
on the one side, there was the Government machine; on the
other, the apathy of the members of the municipality as
well as the public. The whole steel-frame of municipal adminis-
tration, as erected by Government, prevented radical growth or
innovation. The financial policy was such that the municipality
was always dependent on the Government. Most radical schemes
of taxation or social development were not permissible under
the existing municipal laws. Even such schemes as were legally
permissible had to be sanctioned by Government, and only the
optimists, with a long stretch of years before them, could con-
fidently ask for and await this sanction. It amazed me to find
out how slowly and laboriously and inefficiently the machinery
of Government moved when any job of social construction, or
of nation building was concerned. There was no slowness or
inefficiency, however, when a political opponent had to be
curbed or struck down. The contrast was marked.

The department of the Provincial Government dealing with
Local Self-government was presided over by a Minister; but, as
a rule, this presiding genius was supremely ignorant of muni-
cipal affairs or, indeed, of any public affairs. Indeed, he counted
for little and was largely ignored by his own department, which
was run by the permanent officials of the Indian Civil Service.
These officials were influenced by the prevailing conception of
high officials in India that government was primarily a police
function. Some idea of authoritarian paternalism coloured this

* 4 *

MUNICIPAL WORK 143

conception, but there was hardly any appreciation of the neces
sity of social services on a large scale.

Government is always a creditor of the municipalities, and,
next to the police view, it is the creditor’s view that it takes of
them. Are the debt instalments paid regularly? Is the munici-
pality thoroughly solvent, and has it got a substantial balance in
hand? All very necessary and relevant questions, but it is often
overlooked that the municipality has some positive functions to
perform— education, sanitation, etc. — and that it is not merely
an organisation for borrowing money and paying it bade at
regular intervals. The social services provided by Indian muni-
cipalities are few enough, but even these are curtailed where
there is financial stringency, and usually the first to suffer is
education. The ruling classes are not personally interested in
municipal schools ; their children go to more up-to-date and
expensive private schools, often receiving grants-in-aid from the
State.

Most Indian cities can be divided into two parts : the densely
crowded city proper, and the widespread area with bungalows
and cottages, each with a fairly extensive compound or garden,
usually referred to by the English as the ‘ Civil Lines ’. It is in
these Civil Lines that the English officials and business-men, as
well as many upper middle-class Indians, professional men,
officials, etc., live. The income of the municipality from the
city proper is greater than that from the Civil Lines, but the
expenditure on the latter far exceeds the city expenditure. For
the far wider area covered by the Civil Lines requires more
roads, and they have to be repaired, cleaned-up, watered, and
lighted; and the drainage, the water supply, and the sanitation
system have to be more widespread. The city part is always
grossly neglected, and, of course, the poorer parts of the city
are almost ignored; it has few good roads, and most of the
narrow lanes are ill-lit and have no proper drainage or sanitation
system. It puts up with all these disabilities patiently and seldom
complains; and when it does complain, nothing much happens.
Nearly all the Big Noises and Little Noises live in the Civil
Lines.

To equalise the burden a little and to encourage improvements,
I wanted to introduce a tax on land values. But hardly had I
made the suggestion when a protest came from a Government
official, I think it was the District Magistrate, who pointed out
that this would be in contravention of various enactments or
conditions of land tenure. Such a tax would obviously have
fallen more heavily on the owners of the bungalows in the Civil

144 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Lines. But Government approves thoroughly of an indirect
tax like the octroi which crushes trade, raises prices of all goods,
including foodstuffs, and falls most heavily on the poor. And
this most unsocial and harmful levy has been the mainstay of
most Indian municipalities, though, I believe, it is very slowly
disappearing in the larger cities.

As chairman of the Municipality I had thus to deal with, on
the one side, an impersonal authoritarian government machine
which jogged along laboriously in the old ruts and obstinately
refused either to move faster or in a different direction; and on
the other, were my colleagues, the members, most of whom
were equally in the ruts. Some of them were idealists, and took
to their work with enthusiasm, but taken as a whole there was
no vision, no passion for change or betterment. The old ways
were good enough, why try experiments which might not come
off? Even the idealists and enthusiasts gradually succumbed to
the narcotic effects of dull routine. But one subject could always
be relied upon to infuse vigour into the members — the subject
of patronage and appointments. This interest did not always
result in greater efficiency.

Year after year government resolutions and officials and some
newspapers criticise municipalities and local boards, and point
out their many failings. And from this the moral is drawn that
democratic institutions are not suited to India. Their failings
are obvious enough, but little attention is paid to the frame-
work within which they have to function. This framework is
neither democratic nor autocratic; it is a cross between the
two, and has the disadvantages of both. That a central govern-
ment should have certain powers of supervision and control may
be admitted, but this can only fit in with a popular local body
if the central government itself is democratic and responsive to
public needs. Where this is not so, there will either be a tussle
between the two or a tame submission to the will of the central
authority, which thus exercises power without in any way
shouldering responsibility. This is obviously unsatisfactory, and
it takes away from the reality of popular control. Even the
members of the Municipal Board look more to the central
authority than to their constituents, and the public also often
ignores the Board. Real social issues hardly ever come before
the Board, chiefly because they lie outside its functions, and its
most obvious activities are tax-collecting, which do not make it
excessively popular.

The franchise for the local bodies is also limited, and should
be greatly lowered and extended. Even a great city corporation

MUNICIPAL WORK

*45

like the Bombay Corporation is, I believe, elected on a very re-
stricted franchise. Some time back a resolution asking for wider
franchise was actually defeated in the Corporation itself. Evi-
dently the majority of councillors were satisfied with their lot
and saw no reason to change it or risk it.

Whatever the reasons, the fact remains that our local bodies
are not, as a rule, shining examples of success and efficiency,
though they might, even so, compare with some municipalities
in advanced democratic countries. They are not usually corrupt ;
they are just inefficient, and their weak point is nepotism, and
their perspectives are all wrong. All this is natural enough ; for,
democracy to be successful, must have a background of in-
formed public opinion and a sense of responsibility. Instead, we
have an all-pervading atmosphere of authoritarianism, and the
accompaniments of democracy are lacking. There is no mass
educational system, no effort to build up public opinion based
on knowledge. Inevitably public attention turns to personal or
communal or other petty issues.

The main interest of Government in municipal administra-
tion is that * politics * should be kept out. Any resolution of
sympathy with the national movement is frowned upon; text-
books which might have a nationalist flavour are not permitted
in the municipal schools, even pictures of national leaders are
not allowed there. A national flag has to be pulled down on pain
of suppression of the municipality. Lately a concerted attempt
seems to have been made by several Provincial Governments to
hound out Congressmen from the service of the municipal cor-
porations and boards. Usually, pressure was enough to bring this
about, accompanied as it was with the threat of withholding
various Government grants for municipal education or other
purposes. But in some cases, notably that of the Calcutta Cor-
poration, legislation has been promoted to keep out all persons
who may have gone to prison in connection with civil dis-
obedience or any other political movement against the Govern-
ment. The object was purely political ; there *was no question
of incompetence or unfitness for the job.

These few instances show how much freedom our municipal
and district boards have, how little democratic they are. The
attempt to keep out political opponents from all municipal and
local services — of course they did not go in for direct govern-
ment service — deserves a little attention. It is estimated that
about three hundred thousand persons have gone to prison at
various times during the past fourteen years; and there can be
no doubt that, politics apart, these three hundred thousand
F

146 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

included some of the most dynamic and idealistic, the most
socially minded and selfless people in India. They had push
and energy and the ideal of service to a cause. They were thus
the best material from which a public department or utility
service could draw its employees. And yet Government has
made every effort, even to the extent of passing laws, to keep
out these people, and so to punish them and those who sym-
pathised with them. It prefers and pushes on the lap-dog breed,
and then complains of the inefficiency of our local bodies. And
although politics are said to be outside the province of local
bodies, Government has no objection whatever to their indulg-
ing in politics in support of itself. Teachers in local board schools
have been practically compelled, for fear of losing their jobs,
to go out in the villages to do propaganda on behalf of Govern-
ment.

During the last fifteen years Congress workers have had to face
many difficult positions ; they have shouldered heavy responsi-
bilities; they have, after all, combated, not without success, a
powerful and entrenched Government. This hard course of
training has given them self-reliance and efficiency and strength
to persevere; it has provided them with the very qualities of
which a long and emasculating course of authoritarian govern-
ment had deprived the Indian people. Of course, the Congress
movement, like all mass movements, had, and has, many un-
desirables — fools, inefficients, and worse people. But I have no
doubt whatever that an average Congress worker is likely to be
far more efficient and dynamic than another person of similar
qualifications.

There is one aspect of this matter which Government and its
advisers perhaps do not appreciate. The attempt to deprive
Congress workers of all jobs and to shut avenues of employ-
ment to them is welcomed by the real revolutionary. The
average Congressman is notoriously not a revolutionary, and
after a period of semi-revolutionary action he resumes his hum-
drum life and activities. He gets entangled either in his business
or profession or in the mazes of local politics. Larger issues
seem to fade off in his mind, and revolutionary ardour, such as
it was, subsides. Muscle turns to fat, and spirit to a love of
security. Because of this inevitable tendency of middle-class
workers, it has always been the effort of advanced and revolu-
tionary-minded Congressmen to prevent their comrades from
entering the constitutional mazes of the legislatures and the
local bodies, or accepting whole-time jobs wnich prevent them
from effective action. The Government has, however, now come

MUNICIPAL WORK

*47

to their help to some extent by making it a little more difficult
for the Congress worker to get a job, and it is thus likely that he
will retain some of his revolutionary ardour or even add to it.

After a year or more of municipal work I felt that I was not
utilising my energies to the best advantage there. The most I
could do was to speed-up work and make it a little more efficient.
I could not push through any worth-while change. I wanted to
resign from the chairmanship, but all the members of the Board
pressed me to stay. I had received uniform kindness and courtesy
from them, and I found it hard to refuse. At the end of my
second year, however, I finally resigned.

This was in 1925. In the autumn of that year my wife fell
seriously ill, and for many months she lay in a Lucknow hospital.
The Congress was held that year at Cawnpore, and, somewhat
distracted, I rushed backwards and forwards between Allahabad,
Cawnpore, and Lucknow. (I was still General Secretary of the
Congress.)

Further treatment in Switzerland was recommended for my
wife. I welcomed the idea, for I wanted an excuse to go out of
India myself. My mind was befogged, and no clear path was
visible; and I thought that, perhaps, if I was far from India I
could see things in better perspective and lighten up the dark
corners of my mind.

At the beeinning of March 1926 we sailed, my wife, our
daughter ana I, from Bombay for Venice. With us on the same
boat went also my sister and brother-in-law, Ranjit S. Pandit.
They had planned their European trip long before the question
of our going had arisen.

XXI

IN EUROPE

I was going back to Europe after more than thirteen years —
years of war, and revolution, and tremendous change. The old
world I knew had expired in the blood and horror of the War
and a new world awaited me. I expected to remain in Europe for
six or seven months or, at most, till the end of the year. Actually
our stay lengthened out to a year and nine months.

It was a quiet and restful period for both my mind and body.
We spent it chiefly in Switzerland, in Geneva, and in a mountain
sanatorium at Montana. My younger sister, Krishna, came from
India and joined us early in the summer of 1926, and remained
with us till the end of our stay in Europe. I could not leave my
wife for long, and so I could only pay brief visits to other places.
Later, when my wife was better, we travelled a little in France,
England, and Germany. On our mountain-top, surrounded by
the winter snow, I felt completely cut off from India as well as
the European world. India, and Indian happenings, seemed
especially far away. I was a distant onlooker, reading, watching,
following events, gazing at the new Europe, its politics, eco-
nomics, and the far freer human relationships, and trying to
understand them. When we were in Geneva I was naturally
interested in the activities of the League of Nations and the
International Labour Office.

But with the coming of winter, the winter sports absorbed
my attention ; for some months they were my chief occupation
and interest. I had done ice-skating previously, but ski-ing was
a new experience, and I succumbed to its fascination. It was a
painful experience for a long time, but I persisted bravely, in
spite of innumerable falls, and I came to enjoy it.

Life was very uneventful on the whole. The days went by and
my wife gradually gained strength and health. We saw few
Indians ; indeed, we saw few people apart from the little colony
living in that mountain resort. But in the course of the year
and tnree-quarters that we spent in Europe, we came across some
Indian exijes and old revolutionaries whose names had been
familiar to me.

There was Shyamaji Krishnavarma living with his ailing wife
high up on the top floor of a house in Geneva. The aged couple
lived by themselves with no whole-time servants, and their rooms

148

IN EUROPE

*49

were musty and suffocating, and everything had a thick layer
of dust. Snyamaji had plenty of money, but he did not believe
in -spending it. He would even save a tew centimes by walking
instead of taking the tram. He was suspicious of all comers,
presuming them, until the contrary was proved, to be either
British agents or after his money. His pockets bulged with
ancient copies of his old paper, the Indian Sociologist , and he
would pull them out and point with some excitement to some
article he had written a dozen years previously. His talk was
of the old days, of India House at Hampstead, of the various

E ersons that the British Government had sent to spy on him, and
ow he had spotted them and outwitted them. The walls of his
rooms were covered with shelves full of old books, dust-laden
and neglected, looking down sorrowfully on the intruder. Books
and papers also littered the floor ; they seemed to have remained
so for days and weeks, and even months past. Over the whole
place there hung an atmosphere of gloom, an air of decay;
life seemed to be an unwelcome stranger there, and, as one
walked through the dark and silent corridors, one almost ex-
pected to come across, round the comer, the shadow of death.
With relief one came out of that flat and breathed the air
outside.

Shyamaji desired to make some arrangement about his money,
to create some trust for a public purpose, preferably for the edu-
cation of Indians in foreign countries. He suggested that I
might be one of the trustees, but I showed no keenness for
shouldering this responsibility. I had no desire to get mixed up
with his financial affairs; and, besides, I felt that if I showed any
undue interest he would immediately suspect me of coveting his
money. No one knew how much he had. It was rumoured that
he had lost greatly in the German inflation.

Occasionally prominent Indians used to pass through Geneva.
Those who came to the League of Nations were of the official
variety, and Shyamaji would not, of course, go anywhere near
them. But the Labour Office sometimes brought non-officials
of note, even prominent Congressmen, and Shyamaji would try
to meet them. It was interesting to watch their reactions to him.
Invariably they felt uncomfortable, and tried to avoid him in

S ublic, and excused themselves, whenever they could, in private.

[e was not considered a safe person with whom to be associated
or seen with.

And so Shyamaji and his wife lived their lonely life without
children or relatives or friends, with hardly any associations,
hardly any human contacts. He was a relic of the past, and had

ISO JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

really outlived his day. He did not fit in with the present, and
the world passed him by, ignoring him. But there was still some
of the old fire in his eyes, and though there was little in common
between him and me, I could not withhold my sympathy and
consideration for him.

Recently the newspapers reported his death, followed soon
after by tne death of the gentle Gujrati old lady who had been
his life-long companion in exile in foreign lands. It was stated
that a large sum of money was left by her for the training of
Indian women abroad.

Another well-known person whose name I had often heard,
but whom I met for the first time in Switzerland, was Raja
Mahendra Pratap. He was (and, I suppose, is still) a delightful
optimist, living completely in the air and refusing to have any-
thing to do with realities. I was a little taken aback when I first
saw him. He appeared in strange composite attire, which might
have been suitable in the highlands of Tibet or in the Siberian
plains, but was completely out of place at Montreux in the sum-
mer. It was a kind of semi-military costume, with high Russian
boots, and there were numerous large pockets, all bulging with
papers, photographs, etc. There was a letter from Bethman-
Hollweg, the German Chancellor, an autographed picture of
the Kaiser, a fine scroll from the Dalai Lama of Tibet, and
innumerable documents and pictures. It was amazing how much
those various pockets contained. He told us that once he had
lost a dispatch-box, containing valuable papers, in China, and
ever since then he had considered it safer to carry his papers on
his person! Hence the numerous pockets.

Mahendra Pratap was full of stories of his wanderings and
adventures in Japan, China, Tibet, and Afghanistan. He had
led a varied life, and the record of it was an interesting one.
His latest enthusiasm was for a 'Happiness Society’ which
he had himself founded, and which had for its motto: "Be
Happy ”. Apparently this society had met with greatest success
in Latvia (or was it Lithuania?).

His idea of propaganda was to send out periodically large
numbers of post cards containing a printed message from him
to members of various conferences that met in Geneva or else-
where. These messages were signed by him, but the name given
was an extraordinary one— long and varied. ‘ Mahendra Pratap v
had been reduced to initials, but many other names had been
added, each addition representing apparently some favoured
country he had visited. In this way he emphasized his inter-
national and cosmopolitan character, tmd, fittingly, the final

IN EUROPE

«5»

description below this unique name was “ Servant of Mankind
It was difficult to take Mahendra Pratap seriously. He seemed
to be a character out of medieval romance, a Don Quixote who
had strayed into the twentieth century. But he was absolutely
straight and thoroughly earnest.

In Paris we saw old Madame Cama, rather fierce and terri-
fying as she came up to you and peered into your face, and,
pointing at you, asked abruptly who you were. The answer
made no difference (probably she was too deaf to hear it) for she
formed her own impressions and stuck to them, despite facts to
the contrary.

Then there was Moulvi Obeidulla, whom I met for a short
while in Italy. He seemed to me to be clever, but rather in the
sense of possessing an ability for old-style political manoeuvring.
He was not in touch with modern ideas. He had produced a
scheme for the 4 United States * or 4 United Republics of India ',
which was quite an able attempt to solve the communal prob-
lem. He told me of some of his past activities in Istanbul (it
was still called Constantinople then) and, not attaching much
importance to them, I soon forgot about them. Some months
later he met Lala Lajpat Rai and, apparently, repeated the
same story to him. Lalaji was vastly impressed and exercised
about it, and that story, with many unjustifiable inferences
and amazing deductions, played an important part in the
Indian Council elections that year. Moulvi Obeidulla later went
to the Hedjaz, and for years past no news of him has come my
way.

Another Moulvi, but a different type entirely, was Barkatulla
whom I first met in Berlin. He was a delightful old man, very
enthusiastic and very likeable. He was rather simple, not very
intelligent, but still trying to imbibe new ideas and to under-
stand the present-day world. He died in San Francisco in 1927,
while we were in Switzerland. I was grieved to learn of his
passing away.

In Berlin there was quite a number of thos(c who had formed
an Indian group in war-time, but the group had long gone to
pieces. They had fallen out and quarrelled amongst themselves,
each suspecting the other of betrayal. That seems to be the
fate of political exiles everywhere. Many of these Berlin Indians
had settled down to sedate middle-class occupations-— when these
could be had, and that was not often in post-war Germany — and
had ceased to be in any way revolutionary. They even avoided
politics.

The story of this old war-time group was interesting. Most of

153 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

them were students in various German universities in that
fateful summer of 1914. They lived a common life with the
German students, sang their songs, joined in their games, drank
beer with them, and approached their culture with sympathy
and consideration. The War was no concern of theirs, but they
could not help being moved to some extent by the wave of
nationalistic hysteria that swept over Germany. Their feeling
was really anti-British, and not pro-German, and their Indian
nationalism inclined them to the enemies of Britain. Soon after
the outbreak of the War a few other Indians, more consciously
revolutionary, drifted into Germany through Switzerland. These
people formed themselves into a committee, and sent for Har-
dayal, who was on the west coast of the United States at the
time. Hardayal came some months later, but meanwhile the
Committee had become quite important. This importance had
been thrust upon them by the German Government, who were,
naturally, anxious to exploit all anti-British feelings to their
own advantage. The Indians, on their part, wanted to take
advantage of the international situation for their own national-
istic purposes, and had no intention of allowing themselves to
be exploited purely for Germany’s advantage. They did not
have much choice in the matter, but they felt that they had
something to give which the German authorities were keen on
having, and this gave them a handle to bargain with. They
insisted on assurances and pledges for Indian freedom. The
German Foreign Office seems to have entered into a regular
treaty with them, in which it pledged itself to acknowledge
Indian independence in case of victory, and it was on this pledge
and condition, and many other minor conditions, that the Indian
group promised support in the war. The Committee was offi-
cially honoured in every way, and its representatives were treated
almost on the footing of foreign ambassadors.

This sudden importance, thrust on a small group consisting
mainly of inexperienced young men, went to the heads of some
of them. They felt that they were playing a historic rdle, that
they were involved in great and epoch-making undertakings.
Many of them had exciting adventures, hair-breadth escapes.
In the later stages of the war, their importance visibly lessened,
and they began to be ignored. Hardayal, who had come over
from America, had long been discarded. He did not fit in with
the Committee at all, and both the Committee and the German
Government considered him unreliable, and quietly pushed
him aside. Years later, when I was in Europe in 1936 and
1937, 1 was surprised to find with what bitterness and resent-

IN EUROPE

*53

ment most of the old Indian residents in Europe thought of
Hardayal. He lived at the time in Sweden. I did not meet
him.

The War ended, and with it ended finally the Indian Com-
mittee in Berlin. Life became a dreary affair for them after the
failure of all their hopes. They ha*Lgambled for high stakes
and lost. In any event, life woulf(|Kave seemed a humdrum
affair after the nigh adventure and importance of those war-
time years. But even a secure, humdrum life was not to be had
for the asking. They could not return to India, and defeated
Germany after the War was not an easy place to live in. It was
a hard struggle. A few of them were later allowed by the
Bridsh Government to return to India, but many had to stay
on in Germany. Their position was peculiar. They were,
apparently, citizens of no State. They had no proper passports.
Travel outside Germany was hardly possible, even residence in
Germany was full of difficulties and was at the mercy of the
local police. It was a life of insecurity and hardship, and day-to-
day worry; of continual anxiety to find the wherewithal to eat
and live.

The Nazi regime since early in 1933 has added to their mis-
fortunes, unless they fall in completely with the Nazi doctrine.
Non-Nordic, and especially Asiatic, foreigners are not welcome
in Germany; they are only suffered to exist so long as they
behave. Hitler has pointedly declared himself in favour of
British imperialist rule in India, no doubt because he wants to
gain the goodwill of Britain, and he does not wish to encourage
any Indians who may have displeased the British Government.

One of the exiles in Berlin whom we met, a prominent mem-
ber of the old war-time group, was Champakraman Pillai. He
was rather pompous, and young Indian students had given him
an irreverent title. He could think in terms of nationalism only,
and shrunk away from the social or economic approach to a
question. With the German Nationalists, the Steelhelmets, he
was perfectly at home. He was one of the very few Indians in
Germany who got on with the Nazis. A few months back, in
gaol, I read of his death in Berlin.

An entirely different type of person was Virendranath Chat-
topadhyaya, member of a famous family in India. Popularly
known as Chatto, he was a very able and a very delightful
person. He was always hard up, his clothes were very much
the worse for wear, and often he found it difficult to raise the
wherewithal for a meal. But his humour and lightheartedness
never left him. He had been some years senior to me during my

154 JAWAHAKLAL NEHRU

educational days in England. He was at Oxford when I went
to Harrow. Since those days he had not returned to India, and,
sometimes, a fit of homesickness came to him, when he longed
to be back. All his home-ties had long been severed, and it is
quite certain that if he came to India he would soon feel un-
happy and out of joint.j^But in spite of the passage of many
years and long wanderiiijt&he pull of the home remains. No
exile can escape the malady of his tribe, that consumption of
the soul, as Mazzini called it.

I must say that I was not greatly impressed by most of the
Indian political exiles that I met abroad, although I admired
their sacrifice, and sympathised with their sufferings and present
difficulties, which are very real. I did not meet many of them;
there are so many spread out all over the world. Only a few
are known to us even by reputation, and the others have dropped
out of the Indian world and been forgotten by their countrymen
whom they sought to serve. Of the few I met, the only persons
who impressed me intellectually were V. Chattopadhyaya and
M. N. Roy. Roy I met for a brief half-hour in Moscow. He was
a leading Communist then, although, subsequently, his com-
munism drifted away from the orthodox Comintern brand.
Chatto was not, I believe, a regular Communist, but he was
communistically inclined. Roy nas been in an Indian prison
for more than three years now.

There were many other Indians floating about the face of
Europe, talking a revolutionary language, making daring and
fantastic suggestions, asking curious questions. They seemed
to have the impress of the British Secret Service upon them.

We met, of course, many Europeans and Americans. From
Geneva we went on a pilgrimage many a time (the first time
with a letter of introduction from Gandhiji) to the Villa Olga
at Villeneuve, to see Romain Rolland. Another precious
memory is that of Ernst Toller, the young German poet and
dramatist, now, under Nazi rule, no longer a German; and of
Roger Baldwin, of the Civil Liberties Union of New York. In
Geneva we also made friends with Dhan Gopal Mukerji, the
author, who has settled down in America.

Before going to Europe I had met Frank Buchman, of the
Oxford Group Movement, in India. He had given me some of
the literature of his movement, and I had read it with amaze-
ment. Sudden conversions and confessions, and a revivalist
atmosphere generally, seemed to me to go ill with intellectuality.
I could not make out how some persons, who seemed obviously
intelligent, should experience these strange emotions and be

IN EUROPE

affected by them to a great extent. I grew curious. I met Frank
Buchman again, in Geneva, and he invited me to one of his
international house-parties, somewhere in Rumania, I think, this
one was. I was sorry I could not go and look at this new emo-
tionalism at close quarters. M y_cur iosity has thus remained
unsatisfied, and the more I readHkhe growth of the Oxford
Group Movement, the more I wQPQP.

XXII

CONTROVERSIES IN INDIA

Soon after our arrival in dfegpfland, the General Strike broke
out in England. I was vastly excited, and my sympathies were
naturally all on the strikers’ side. The collapse of the strike,
after a few days, came almost as a personal blow. Some months
later I happened to visit England for a few days. The miners'
struggle was still on, and London lay in semi-darkness at night.
I paid a brief visit to a mining area — I think it was somewhere
in Derbyshire. I saw the haggard and pinched faces of the men
and women and children and, more revealing still, I saw many
of the strikers and their wives being tried in the local or county
court. The magistrates were themselves directors or managers
of the coal mines, and they tried the miners and sentenced them
for trivial offences under certain emergency regulations. One
case especially angered me : three or four women, with babies in
their arms, were brought up in the dock for the offence of having
jeered at the blacklegs. Tne young mothers (and their babies)
were obviously miserable and undernourished; the long struggle
had told upon them and enfeebled them, and embittered them
against the scabs who seemed to take the bread from their
mouths.

One reads often about class justice, and in India nothing is
commoner than this, but somehow I had not expected to come
across such a flagrant example of it in England. It came as
a shock. Another fact that I noticed with some surprise was the
general atmosphere of fear among the strikers. They had
definitely been terrorised by the police and the authorities, and
they put up very meekly, I thought, with rather offensive treat-
ment. It is true that they were thoroughly exhausted after a long
struggle, their spirit was near breaking-point, their comrades of
other trade unions had long deserted them. But still, compared
to the poor Indian worker, there was a world of difference. The
British miners had still a powerful organisation, the sympathy
of a nation-wide, and indeed world-wide, trade union move-
ment, publicity, and resources of many kinds. All these were
lacking to the Indian worker. And yet that frightened and
terrorised look in the two had a strange resemblance.

In India that year there were the triennial elections to the
Legislative Assembly and the Provincial Councils. I was not

>56

CONTROVERSIES IN INDIA I57

interested in them, but some echoes of fierce controversies
managed to reach me in Switzerland. I learnt of a new party
having been formed by Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya and
Lala Lajpat Rai to oppose the Swaraj Party or the regular Con-
gress Party in the legislature, as it4>ow was. The Nationalist
Party, this was called. I could not JMfcke out, and I still do not
know, what grounds of principle separated the new party from
the old. Indeed, most present-day Indian parties in the legis-
lature are like Tweedledum and Tweedledee; no real principles
separate them. The Swaraj Party, for the first time, brought a
new and aggressive element in the Councils, and it stood for a
more extreme political policy than the others. But the difference
was one of degree, not of kind.

The new Nationalist. Party represented a more moderate out-
look, and was definitely more to the right than was the Swaraj
Party. It was also wholly a Hindu party working in close co-
operation with the Hindu Mahasabha. Pandit Malaviya’s leader-
ship of it was easy to understand, for it represented as nearly as
possible his own public attitude. He had, because of old associa-
tions, continued to remain in the Congress, but his intellectual
outlook was not dissimilar to that of the Liberals or Moderates.
He had not taken kindly to non-co-operation and the neiy direct
action methods of the Congress, and had had no share in shaping
Congress policy. Although greatly respected and always welcome
to it, he was not really of the new Congress. He was not a mem-
ber of its small executive, the Working Committee. He did not
carry out the Congress mandates, especially in regard to the legis-
latures. He was also the most popular leader of the Hindu Maha-
sabha, and, in regard to communal matters, his policy differed
from that of the Congress. To Congress he had that sentimental
attachment to an organisation with which he had been con-
nected almost from the very beginning, partly to an emotional
pull in the direction of the freedom struggle, tor he saw that the
Congress was the only organisation doing anything effective
about it. His heart was thus often in the Congress camp, especi-
ally in times of struggle; his head was in other camps. Inevitably
this led to a continual conflict within him, and occasionally to a
simultaneous attempt to march in opposite directions. The result
was public confusion; but nationalism is a confusing medley, and
Malaviyaji was a nationalist alone and not concerned with
social or economic change. He was, and is, a supporter of the
old orthodox order culturally, socially, economically; the Indian
princes and the taluqadars and big zamindars consider him
rightly as a benevolent friend. The sole change he desires, and

158 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

desires passionately, is the complete elimination of foreign
control in India. Tne political training and reading of his youth
still influence his mind greatly, and he looks upon this dynamic,
revolutionary, post-war world of the twentieth century with the
spectacles of a semi-static>*iineteenth century, of T. H. Green
and John Stuart Mill and^Madstone and Morley, and a three- or
four-thousand-year background of old Hindu culture and socio-
logy. It is a curious combination, bristling with contradictions,
but he has an amazing confidence in his own capacity to resolve
contradictions. His long record of public service in various fields
from early youth upwards, his success in establishing a great
institution like the Benares Hindu University, his manifest sin-
cerity and earnestness, his impressive oratory, and his gentle
nature and winning personality, have endeared him to the Indian
public, particularly the Hindu public, and though many may not
agree with him or follow him in politics, they yield him respect
and affection. Both by his age and his long public record he is
the Nestor of Indian politics, but a Nestor who seems a little out
of date, and very much out of touch, with the modern world.
His voice commands attention, but the language he speaks is no
longer understood or heeded by many.

It was natural, therefore, for Malaviyaii not to'join the Swaraj
Party, which was too advanced politically for him and required
a disciplined adherence to the Congress policy. He wanted some-
thing more to the right and greater latitude, both politically and
communally, and he got this in a new party, of which he was
the founder and leader.

It is not so easy to understand Lala Lajpat Rai’s adherence to
this new party, though his inclination was also somewhat to the
right as well as towards a more communal orientation. I had
met Lalaji in Geneva that summer, and from our talks I had not
gathered that he contemplated taking up an aggressive attitude
against the Congress Party. How this happened I have still no
idea. But in the course of the election campaign, he made certain
vague charges, which showed how his mind had been working.
He accused the Congress leaders of intriguing with people out-
side India. He further accused them of some such intrigue in
establishing a Congress branch in Kabul. I do not think he ever
specified his charges or went into any details, in spite of repeated
requests.

I remember that when I read in the Indian papers that reached
me in Switzerland about Lalaji’s charges I was astounded. As
Congress Secretary, I knew all about our organisation; I had
myself been instrumental in getting the Kabul Committee affili-

CONTROVERSIES IN INDIA

*59

ated (Deshbandhu Das had taken the initiative in the matter);
and though I did not then know (as I do not now know) the
details of the charges, I could say from their general nature that
they could have no foundation so far as the Congress was con-
cerned. I do not know how Lalaji was misled in the matter. He
may have relied on various rumours, and I think he must have
been influenced by the talk he had recently had with Moulvi
Obeidulla, although there was nothing in that talk which seemed
extraordinary to me. But elections are extraordinary phenomena.
They have a curious way of upsetting tempers and ordinary
standards. The more I see of them the more I wonder, and a
wholly undemocratic distaste of them grows within me.

But, personalities apart, the rise of the Nationalist Party, or
some such party, was inevitable owing to the growing communal
temper of the country. On the one side, there were the Muslim
fears of a Hindu majority; on the other side, Hindu resentment
at being bullied, as they conceived it, by the Muslims. Many a
Hindu felt that there was too much of the stand-up-and-deliver
about the Muslim attitude, too much of an attempt to extort
special privileges with the threat of going over to the other side.
Because of this, the Hindu Mahasabha rose to some importance,
representing as it did Hindu nationalism, Hindu communalism
opposing Muslim communalism. The aggressive activities of the
Mahasabha acted on and stimulated stul further this Muslim
communalism, and so action and reaction went on, and in the
process the communal temperature of the country went up.
Essentially this was a question between the majority group in the
country and a big minority. But, curiously enough, in some
parts of the country the position was reversed. In the Punjab
and Sind the Hindus as well as the Sikhs were in a minority, the
Muslims in a majority ; and these provincial minorities had as
much fear of being crushed by a hostile majority in those
provinces as the Muslims had in the whole of India. Or, to be
more accurate, the middle-class job-seekers in each group were
afraid of being ousted by the other group, and* to some extent
the holders of vested interests were afraid of radical changes
affecting those interests.

The Swaraj Party suffered because of this growth of com-
munalism. Some ot its Muslim members dropped off and joined
the communal organisations, and some of its Hindu members
drifted off to the Nationalist Party. Malaviyaji and Lala Lajpat
Rai made a powerful combination so far as the Hindu electorate
was concerned, and Lalaji had great influence in the Punjab, the
storm centre of communalism. On the side of the Swaraj Party

l6o JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

or Congress, the chief burden of fighting the elections fell on
my father. C. R. Das was no longer there to share it with him.
He enjoyed a fight, or at any rate never shirked it, and the grow-
ing strength of the opposition made him throw all his great
energy into the election campaign. He received and gave hard
blows; little grace was shown or quarter given by either party.
That election left a trail of bitter memories.

The Nationalist Party met with a great measure of success,
but this success definitely lowered the political tone of the Legis-
lative Assembly. The centre of gravity moved more to the rignt.
The Swaraj Party had itself been the right wing of the Congress.
In its attempts to add to its strength, it had allowed many a
doubtful person to creep in, and had suffered in quality because
of this. The Nationalist Party followed the same policy, only
on a lower plane, and a motley crew of title-holders, big land-
holders, industrialists and others, who had little to do with
politics, came into its ranks.

The end of that year 1926 was darkened by a great tragedy,
which sent a thrill of horror all over India. It showed to what
depths communal passion could reduce our people. Swami
Shraddhanand was assassinated by a fanatic as he lay in bed.
What a death for a man who had bared his chest to the bayonets
of the Gurkhas and marched to meet their fire! Nearly eight
years earlier he, an Arya Samajist leader, had stood in the pulpit
of the great Jame Musjid of Delhi and preached to a mighty
gathering of Muslims and Hindus of unity and India’s freedom.
And that great multitude had greeted him with loud cries of
Hindu-Musalman-ki-jai, and outside in the streets they had

1 'ointly sealed that cry with their blood. And now he lay dead,
rilled by a fellow-countryman, who thought, no doubt, that he
was doing a meritorious deed, which would lead him to paradise.

Always 1 have admired sheer physical courage, the courage to
face physical suffering in a good cause, even unto death. Most of
us, I suppose, admire it. Swami Shraddhanand had an amazing
amount of that fearlessness. His tall and stately figure, wrapped
in a sanyasin’s robe, perfectly erect in spite or advanced years,
eyes flashing, sometimes a shadow of irritation or anger at the
weakness of others passing over his face — how I remember that
vivid picture, and how often it has come back to me!

XXIII

THE OPPRESSED MEET AT BRUSSELS

Towards the end of 1926 1 happened to be in Berlin, and I learnt
there of a forthcoming Congress of Oppressed Nationalities,
which was to be held at Brussels. The idea appealed to me, and
I wrote home, suggesting that the Indian National Congress
might take official part in the Brussels Congress. My suggestion
was approved, and I was appointed the Indian Congress repre-
sentative for this purpose.

The Brussels Congress was held early in February 1927. I do
not know who originated the idea. Berlin was at the time a centre
which attracted political exiles and radical elements from abroad;
it was gradually catching up Paris in that respect. The Com-
munist element was also strong there. Ideas of some common
action between oppressed nations inter se, as well as between
them and the Labour left wing, were very much in the air. It
was felt more and more that the struggle for freedom was a
common one against the thing that was imperialism, and joint
deliberation and, where possible, joint action were desirable.
The colonial Powers— England, France, Italy, etc., were natur-
ally hostile to any such attempts being made, but Germany was,
since the War, no longer a colonial Power, and the German
Government viewed with a benevolent neutrality the growth of
agitation in the colonies and dependencies of other Powers. This
was one of the reasons which made Berlin a centre for advanced
and disaffected elements from abroad. Among these the most
prominent and active were the Chinese belonging to the left wing
of the Kuo-Min-Tang, which was then sweeping across China,
and the old feudal elements seemed to be rolling down before its
irresistible advance. Even the Imperialist powers lost their
aggressive habits and minatory tone before this new phenome-
non. It appeared that the solution of the problem of China’s
unity and freedom could not long be delayed. The Kuo-Min-
Tang was flushed with success, but it knew the difficulties that
lay ahead, and it wanted to strengthen itself by international
propaganda. Probably it was the left wing of the party, co-
operating with Communists and near-Communists abroad, that
laid stress on this propaganda, both to strengthen China’s
national position abroad and its own position in the Party ranks
at home. The Party had not split up at the time into two or

1 6a

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

more rival and bitterly hostile groups, and presented, to all out-
ward seeming, a united front.

The European representatives of the Kuo-Min-Tang, there-
fore, welcomed the idea of the Congress of Oppressed Nationali-
ties; perhaps they even originated the idea jointly with some
other people. Some Communists and near-Communists were also
at the back of the proposal right from the beginning, but, as a
whole, the Communist element kept in the background. Active
support and help also came from Latin America, which was
chafing at the time at the economic imperialism of the United
States. Mexico, with a radical President and policy, was eager
to take the lead in a Latin American bloc against the United

States; and Mexico, therefore, took great interest in the Brussels
Congress. Officially the Government could not take part, but it
sent one of its leading diplomats to be present as a benevolent
observer.

There were also present at Brussels representatives from the
national organisations of Java, Indo-China, Palestine, Syria,
Egypt, Arabs from North Africa, and African Negroes. Then
there were many left-wing Labour organisations represented, and
several well-known men, who had played a leading part in Euro-
pean Labour struggles for a generation, were present. Com-
munists were there also, and they took an important part in the
proceedings; they came not as Communists, but as representa-
tives of trade union or similar organisations.

George Lansbury was elected president, and he delivered an
eloquent address. That in itself was proof that the Congress
was not so rabid after all, nor was it merely hitched on to the star
of Communism. But there is no doubt that the gathering was
friendly towards the Communists, and, even though agreement
might be lacking on some matters, there appeared to be several
common grounds for action.

Mr. Lansbury agreed to be president also of the permanent
organisation that was formed — the League Against Imperialism.
But he repented of his rash behaviour soon, or perhaps his
colleagues of the British Labour Party did not approve of it.
The Labour Party was * His Majesty's Opposition ' then, soon to
blossom out as 4 His Majesty’s Government ’, and future Cabinet
Ministers cannot dabble in risky and revolutionary politics. Mr.
Lansbury resigned from the presidentship on the ground of
being too busy for it; he even resigned from the membership of
the League. I was hurt by this sudden change in a person whose
s|>eech I had admired only two or three months earlier.

The League Against Imperialism had, however, quite a num-

THE OPPRESSED MEET AT BRUSSELS 163

ber of distinguished persons as its patrons. Einstein was one of
them, and Madame Sun Yat Sen and, I think, Romain Rolland.
Many months later Einstein resigned, as he disagreed with the
pro- Arab policy of the League in the Arab-Jewish quarrels in
Palestine.

The Brussels Congress, as well as the subsequent Committee
meetings of the League, which were held in various places from
time to time, helped me to understand some of the problems of
colonial and dependent countries. They gave me also an insight
into the inner conflicts of the Western Labour world. I knew
something about them already; I had read about them, but there
was no reality behind my knowledge, as there had been no per-
sonal contacts. I had some such contacts now, and sometimes
had to face problems which reflected these inner conflicts. As
between the Labour worlds of the Second International and the
Third International, my sympathies were with the latter. The
whole record of the Second International from the War onwards
filled me with distaste, and we in India had had sufficient per-
sonal experience of the methods of one of iu> strongest supports
— the British Labour Party. So I turned inevitably with good-
will towards Communism, for, whatever its faults, it was at least
not hypocritical and not imperialistic. It was not a doctrinal
adherence, as I did not know much about the fine points of
Communism, my acquaintance being limited at the time to its
broad features. These attracted me, as also the tremendous
changes taking place in Russia. But Communists often irritated
me by their dictatorial ways, their aggressive and rather vulgar
methods, their habit of denouncing everybody who did not agree
with them. This reaction was no doubt due, as they would say,
to my own bourgeois education and up-bringing.

It was curious how, in our League Against Imperialism Com-
mittee meetings, I would usually be on the side of the Anglo-
American members on petty matters of argument. There was a
certain similarity in our outlook in regard to method at least.
We would both object to declamatory and long-winded resolu-
tions, which resembled manifestos. We preferred something
simpler and shorter, but the Continental trr.dition was against
this. There was often difference of opinion between the Com-
munist elements and the non-Communists. Usually we agreed
on a compromise. Later on, some of us returned to our homes
and could not attend any further Committee meetings.

The Brussels Congress was viewed with some consternation by
the Foreign and Colonial Offices of the Imperialist powers.
‘ Angur ’, the well-known writer of the British Foreign Office,

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

164

has given a somewhat sensational, and occasionally ludicrous,
account of it in one of his books. The Congress itself was
probably full of international spies, many of the delegates even
representing various secret services. We had an amusing instance
of this. An American friend of mine, who was in Paris, had a
visit from a Frenchman who belonged to the French secret
service. It was quite a friendly visit to enquire ^bout certain
matters. When he had finished his enquiries he asked the
American if he did not recognise him, for they had met
previously. The American looked hard, but he had to admit
that he could not place him at all. The secret service agent then
told him that he had met him at the Brussels Congress as a
Negro delegate, with his face, hands, etc., all blacked over I

One of the meetings of the Committee of the League Against
Imperialism took place at Cologne, and I attended it. After the
meeting was over we were asked to go to Dusseldorf, near by, to
attend a Saccho-Vanzetti meeting. As we were returning from
that meeting, we were asked to show our passports to the police.
Most of the people had their passports with them, but I had
left mine at the hotel in Cologne, as we had only come for a few
hours to Dusseldorf. I was thereupon marched to a police-station.
Fortunately for me I had companions in distress — an English-
man and his wife, who also had left their passport in Cologne.
After about an hour’s wait, during which probably telephonic
enquiries were made, the police chief was graciously pleased to
allow us to depart.

The League Against Imperialism veered more towards Com-
munism in later years, though at no time, so far as I know, did
it lose its individual character. I could only remain in distant
touch with it by means of correspondence. In 1931, because of
my part in the Delhi truce between the Congress and the Govern-
ment of India, it grew exceedingly angry with me, and excom-
municated me with bell, book, and candle — or to be more accu-
rate, it expelled me by some kind of a resolution. I must confess
that it had great provocation, but it might have given me some
chance of explaining my position.

In the summer of 1927 my father came to Europe. I met him
at Venice, and during the next few months we were often
together. All of us — my father, my wife, my young sister, and
I— -paid a brief visit to Moscow in November during the tenth
anniversary celebrations of the Soviet. It was a very brief visit,
just three or four days in Moscow, decided upon at the last
moment. But we were glad we went, for even that glimpse
was worth while. It did not, and could not, teach us much about

THE OPPRESSED MEET AT BRUSSELS 165

the new Russia, but it did give us a background for our reading.
To my father all such Soviet and collectivist ideas were wholly
novel. His whole training had been legal and constitutional, and
he could not easily get out of that framework. But he was
definitely impressed by what he saw in Moscow.

We were in Moscow when the announcement about the Simon
Commission was first made. We first read about it in a Moscow
sheet. A few days afterwards, father was appearing in the Privy
Council in London in an Indian appeal with Sir John Simon
as a colleague. It was an old zaminaari case in the earlier stages
of which, many years previously, I had also appeared. I had
no further interest in it, but at Sir John Simon's suggestion I
accompanied my father on one occasion to Sir John's chambers
for a consultation.

The year 1927 was drawing to an end, and our stay in Europe
had been unduly prolonged. Probably we would have returned
home sooner but for father visiting Europe. It was our intention
to spend some time in south-eastern Europe and Turkey and
Egypt on our way back. But there was no time for this then,
and I was eager to be back in time for the next Congress session
which was going to be held in Madras at Christmas-time. We
sailed from Marseilles, my wife, sister, daughter and I, early in
December for Colombo. My father remained in Europe for
another three months.

XXIV

RETURN TO INDIA AND PLUNGE BACK
INTO POLITICS

I was returning from Europe in good physical and mental con*
dition. My wife was not yet wholly recovered, but she was far
better, and that relieved me of anxiety on her score. I felt full
of energy and vitality, and the sense of inner conflict and
frustration that had oppressed me so often previously was, for
the time being, absent. My outlook was wider, and nationalism
by itself seemed to me definitely a narrow and insufficient creed.
Political freedom, independence, were no doubt essential, but
they were steps only in the right direction; without social free-
dom and a socialistic structure of society and the State, neither
the country nor the individual could develop much. I felt I had
a clearer perception of world affairs, more grip on the present-
day world, ever changing as it was. I had read largely, not only
on current affairs and politics, but on many other subjects that
interested me, cultural and scientific. I found the vast political,
economic, and cultural changes going on in Europe and
America a fascinating study. Soviet Russia, despite certain un-
pleasant aspects, attracted me greatly, and seemed to hold forth
a message of hope to the world. Europe, in the middle ’twenties,
was trying to settle down in a way; the great depression was yet
to come. But I came back with the conviction that this settling
down was superficial only, and big eruptions and mighty changes
were in store for Europe and the world in the near future.

To train and prepare our country for these world events — to
keep in readiness for them, as far as we could — seemed to be the
immediate task. The preparation was largely an ideological one.
First of all, there should be no doubt about the objective of
political independence. This should be clearly understood as the
only possible political goal for us; something radically different
from the vague and confusing talk of Dominion Status. Then
there was the social goal. It would be too much, I felt, to expect
the Congress to go far in this direction just then. The Congress
was a purely political and nationalistic body, unused to thinking
on other lines. But a beginning might be made. Outside the
Congress, in labour circles and among the young, the idea could
be pushed on milch further. For this purpose I wanted to keep
myself free from Congress office, and I had a vague idea also of
spending some months in remote rural areas to study their con-

166

RETURN TO INDIA 167

ditions. But this was not to be, and events were to drag me
again into the heart of Congress politics.

Immediately on our arrival in Madras I was caught in the
whirl. I presented a bunch of resolutions to the Working Com-
mittee — resolutions on Independence, War Danger, association
with the League against Imperialism, etc. — and nearly all of
these were accepted and- made into official Working Committee
resolutions. I had to put them forward at the open session of
the Congress, and, to my surprise, they were all almost unani-
mously adopted. The Independence resolution was supported
even by Mrs. Annie Besant. This all-round support was very
gratifying, but I had an uncomfortable feeling that the resolu-
tions were either not understood for what they were, or were
distorted to mean something .rise. That this was so became
apparent soon after the Congress, when a controversy arose on
the meaning of the Independence resolution.

These resolutions of mine were somewhat different from the
usual Congress resolutions; they represented a new outlook.
Many Congressmen no doubt liked them, some had a vague dis-
like for them, but not enough to make them oppose. Probably
the latter thought that they were academic resolutions, making
little difference either way, and the best way to get rid of them
was to pass them and move on to something more important.
The Independence resolution thus did not represent then, as it
did a year or two later, a vital and irrepressible urge on the part
of the Congress; it represented a widespread and growing
sentiment.

Gandhiji was in Madras and he attended the open Congress
sessions, but he did not take any part in the shaping of policy.
He did not attend the meetings of the Working Committee of
which he was a member. That had been his general political
attitude in the Congress since the dominance of the Swaraj
Party. But he was frequently consulted, and little of importance
was done without his knowledge. I do not know how far the
resolutions I put before the Congress met with his approval. I
am inclined to think that he disliked them, not so much because
of what they said, but because of their general trend and out-
look. He did not, however, criticise them on any occasion. My
father was, of course, away in Europe at the time.

The unreality of the Independence resolution came out in that
very session of the Congress, when another resolution con
donning the Simon Commission and appealing for its boycott
was considered. As a corollary to this it was proposed to convene
an All-Parties Conference, which was to draw up a constitution

1 68

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

for India. It was manifest that the moderate groups, with whom
co-operation was sought, could never think in tenns of Inde-
pendence. The very utmost they could go to was some form of
Dominion Status.

I stepped back into the Congress secretaryship. There were
personal considerations— the desire of the President for the year,
Dr. M. A. Ansari, who was an old and dear friend— and the
fact that, as many of my resolutions had been passed, I ought
to see them through. It was true that the resolution on the
All-Parties Conference had partly neutralised the effect of my
resolutions. Still, much remained. The real reason for my
accepting office again was my fear that the Congress might,
through the instrumentality of the All-Parties Conference, or
because of other reasons, slide back to a more moderate and
compromising position. It seemed to be in a hesitant mood,
swinging alternately from one extreme to another. I wanted to
prevent, as far as I could, the swing back to Moderation and to
hold on to the Independence objective.

The National Congress always attracts a large number of
side-shows at its annual sessions. One of the side-shows at
Madras was a Republican Conference which held its first (and
last) sessions that year. I was asked to preside. The idea appealed
to me, as I considered myself a republican. But I hesitated, as
I did not know who was at the back of the new venture, and I
did not want to associate myself with mushroom growths. I
presided, eventually, but later I repented of this, for the Re-
publican Conference turned out to be, like so many others, a
still-born affair. For several months I tried, and tried in vain,
to get the text of the resolutions passed by it. It is amazing how
many of our people love to sponsor new undertakings and then
ignore them and leave them to shift for themselves. There is
much in the criticism that we are not a persevering lot.

Before we had dispersed from Madras after the Congress, news
came of the death of Hakim Ajmal Khan at Delhi. As an
ex-president of the Congress he was one of its elder statesmen;
but he was something more also, and he occupied a unique place
in the Congress leadership. Brought up as he was, entirely in the
old conservative way, with no touch of modernism in it, and
steeped in the culture of imperial Delhi of Moghal days, it was
a delight to* watch his fine courtesy and hear his unhurried voice
and listen to his dry humour. He was, in his manners, a typical
aristocrat of the old order, with princely look and princely ways,
and even his face bore a marked resemblance to the miniatures
of the Moghal sovereigns. Such a person would not ordinarily

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169

take to the rough-and-tumble of politics; and Britishers in India
have often sighed for persons of this old type when the new
breed of agitators has troubled them. Hakim Sahab had also
little to do with politics in his early days. As the head of a
famous family of physicians, he was busy with his enormous
practice. But even during the latter part of the War events,
and the influence of his old friend and colleague, Dr. M. A.
Ansari, were driving him to the Congress; and subsequent hap-
penings — Martial Law in the Punjab and the Khilafat question-
moved him deeply, and he turned with approval to the new
Gandhian technique of non-co-operation. He brought a rare
quality and precious gifts to the Congress— he became a link
between the old order and the new, and gave the support of the
former to the national movement; and thus he produced
a harmony between the two, and gave strength and a certain
stolidity to the advance guard of the movement. He brought
the Hindus and Muslims much nearer to each other, for both
honoured him and were influenced by his example. To Gandhiji
he became a trusted friend, whose advice in regard to Hindu-
Muslim matters was the final word for him. My father and
Hakimji had naturally taken to each other.

Last year I was accused by some leaders of the Hindu
Mahasabha of my ignorance of Hindu sentiments because of
my defective education and general background of ‘ Persian *
culture. What culture I possess, or whether I possess any at all,
is a little difficult for me to say. Persian, as a language, un-
happily, I do not even know. But it is true that my father had
grown up in an Indo-Persian cultural atmosphere, which was
the legacy in north India of the old Delhi court, and of which,
even in tnese degenerate days, Delhi and Lucknow are the two
chief centres. Kashmiri Brahmans had a remarkable capacity
for adaptation, and coming down to the Indian plains ana fina-
ing that this Indo-Persian culture was predominant at the time,
they took to it, and produced a number of fine scholars in
Persian and Urdu. Later they adapted themselves with equal
rapidity to the changing order, when a knowledge of English
and the elements of European culture became necessary. But
even now there are many distinguished scholars in Persian
among the Kashmiris in India— Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and
Raja Narendra Nath, to mention two of them.

Hakim Sahab and my father had thus much in common, and
they even discovered old family connections. They became great
friends and addressed each other as Bhni Sahab — brother.
Politics was the least of their many bonds. In his domestic

170 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

habits Hakimji was extraordinarily conservative; he could not,
or his family people could not, get out of old habits. I have
never seen such amazingly strict purdah, or seclusion of women,
as existed in his family. And yet Hakimji was firmly convinced
that no nation advanced unless the women of that country freed
themselves. He impressed this upon me, and told me how much
he admired the part Turkish women had played in their free-
dom struggle. It was chiefly because of Turkish women, he said,
that Kemal Pasha had succeeded.

The death of Hakim Ajmal Khan was a great blow to the
Congress; it meant the removal of one of its stoutest supports.
For all of us there has been since then something lacking in a
visit to Delhi, for Delhi was so closely associated with Hakimji
and his house in Billimaran.

The year 1928 was, politically, a full year, with plenty of
activity all over the country. There seemed to be a new impulse
moving the people forward, a new stir that was equally present
in the most varied groups. Probably the change had been going
on gradually during my long absence from the country; it struck
me as very considerable on my return. Early in 1926 India was
still quiescent, passive, perhaps not fully recovered from the
effort of 1919-1922; in 1928 she seemed fresh, active, and full
of suppressed energy. Everywhere there was evidence of this :
among the industrial workers, the peasantry, middle-class youth,
and the intelligentsia generally.

The Trade Union movement had grown greatly, and the
All-India Trade Union Congress, established seven or eight
years previously, was already a strong and representative body.
It had not only grown in numbers and in organisation, but its
ideology was becoming more militant and extreme. Strikes
were frequent, and class-consciousness was growing. The textile
industry and the railways were the best organised, and of these
the strongest and most advanced unions were the Gimi Kamgar
Union of Bombay and the G.I.P. Railway Union. The growth
of labour organisation had inevitably brought the seeds of in-
ternal conflict and disruption from the West, and hardly had
the Indian Trade Union Movement established itself when it
threatened to split up into rival and hostile camps. There were
those who. adhered to the Second International, and those who-
favoured the Third; those who were moderately reformist in
their outlook, and those who were frankly revolutionary and
out for radical changes. In between the two there were various
shades and degrees of opinion and, as is unfortunately the case
in all mass organisations, of opportunism.

KtTUftN TO INDIA

* 7 »

The peasantry was also astir. This was noticeable in the
United Provinces and especially in Oudh, where large gatherings
of protesting tenants became common. It was realised that the
new Oudh tenancy law, which gave a life-tenure and had
promised a great deal, made little difference to the hard lot of
the peasant. In Gujrat a conflict on a big scale developed be-
tween die peasantry and the Government because of the attempt
of the latter to increase revenue— Gujrat being an area of
peasant-proprietors where Government deals directly with the
peasants. This struggle was the Bardoli Satyagraha under the
leadership of Sardar Valtabhbhai Patel. It was gallantly carried
through to the admiration of the rest of India. The Bardoli
peasantry met with a considerable measure of success; the real
success of their campaign, however, lay in the effect it produced
amongst the peasantry ail over India. Bardoli became a sign
and a symbol of hope and strength and victory to the Indian
peasant.

Another very noticeable feature of the India of 1928 was the
growth of the Youth Movement. Everywhere youth leagues
were being established, youth conferences were being held. They
were a very varied lot, from semi-religious groups to others dis-
cussing revolutionary ideology and technique; but whatever
their origin and auspices, such gatherings of youth always began
to discuss the vital social and economic problems of the day,
and generally, their tendency was for root-and-branch change.

From the purely political point of view the year was notea for
the boycott of the Simon Commission and (what was called the
constructive side of the boycott) the All-Parties Conference. The
moderate groups co-operated with the Congress in thjs boycott,
and it was remarkably successful. Wherever the Commission
went it was greeted by hostile crowds and the cry of “ Simon go
back”, and thus vast numbers of the Indian masses became
acquainted not only with Sir John Simon’s name but with two
words of the English language, the only two they knew. These
words must have become a hated obsession for the members of
the Commission. The story is related that once, when they were
staying at the Western Hostel in New Delhi, the refrain seemed
to come to them in the night out of the darkness. They were
greatly irritated at being pursued in this way, even at night.
As a matter of fact, the noise that disturbed them came from
the jackals that infest the waste places of the imperial capital.

The All-Parties Conference had no difficulty at all in settling
the main principles of the constitution; they were to be of the
democratic parliamentary variety, and almost any one could

173 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

draw them up. The real difficulty, and the only difficulty, came
from the communal or minorities issue, and as the Conference
had within its fold the representatives of all the extreme com-
munal organisations, an agreement became extraordinarily
difficult. It was a repetition of the old infructuous Unity Con-
ferences. My father, who had returned from Europe in the
spring, took great interest in the Conference. Ultimately, as a
last resource, a small committee was appointed, with my father
as chairman, to draft the constitution and make a full report on
the communal issue. This Committee came to be known as the
Nehru Committee, and their subsequent report, as the Nehru
Report. Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru was also a member of this Com-
mittee, and was responsible for part of the Report.

I was not a member of this Committee, but as Congress
Secretary I had much to do with it. It was an awkward situation
for me, for I thought it wholly futile to draw up detailed paper
constitutions when the real problem was the conquest of power.
Another difficulty for me was the inevitable limitations by this
mixed Committee of our goal to what was called Dominion
Status and was, in fact, even less. For me the real importance
of the Committee lay in the possibility of its finding a way out
of the communal impasse. I did not expect a final solution of
this question by some pact or agreement — that solution would
only come by a diversion of interest to social and economic issues
— but there was the possibility that even a temporary pact, if
accepted by a sufficient number of people, would help to ease
the situation and thus succeed in diverting interest to other
issues. So I did not wish to obstruct the work of the Committee
and I gave such help as I could.

Success seemed almost within grasp. Only two or three points
remained to settle, and of these the really important one was
the Punjab, where there was the Hindu-Muslim-Sikh triangle.
The Committee in their report considered the question of the
Punjab from a novel point of view, and supported their recom-
mendation with the help of some revealing figures of the dis-
tribution of population. But all this was in vain. Fear and
mistrust remained on either side, and the little step to cross the
short distance that remained was not taken.

The All-Parties Conference met at Lucknow to consider the
report of their Committee. Again some of us were in a
dilemma, for we did not wish to come in the way of a communal
settlement, if that was possible, and yet we were not prepared
to yield on the question of independence. We begged that the
conference leave this question open so that each constituent part

RETURN TO INDIA

*73

could have liberty of action on this issue — the Congress adhering
to independence and the more moderate groups to Dominion
Status. But my father had set his heart on the Report and he
would not yield, nor perhaps could he under the circumstances*
I was thereupon asked by our Independence group in the
conference — and this was a large one — to make a statement to
the Conference on its behalf, dissociating ourselves completely
from everything that lowered the objective of independence.
But we made it further clear that we would not be obstructive,
as we did not wish to come in the way of the communal state-
ment.

This was not a very effective line to adopt on such a major
issue; at best it was a negative gesture. A positive side was given
to our attitude by our founding that very day the Independence
for India League.

The All-Parties Conference gave me another and a greater
shock by adding to the Fundamental Rights in the proposed
constitution, at the instance of the Oudh taluqadars, a clause
guaranteeing their vested rights in their taluqas. The whole
constitution was, of course, based on the idea of private prop-
erty, but it did seem to me an outrage to make the property
rights in the huge semi-feudal estates one of the irremovable
foundations of the constitution. This made it clear that the
Congress leadership, and much more so the non-Congress people,
preferred the company of the landed mugnates to that of the
socially advanced groups in their own ranks. It was obvious that a
wide gulf separated us from many of our leaders, and it seemed a
little absurd for me to carry on as General Secretary of the Con-
gress under these circumstances. I offered my resignation on the
ground of having been one of the founders of the Independence
for India League. But the Working Committee would not agree
to it and told me (as well as Subhas Bose, who had also offered
to resign on the same ground) that we could carry on with the
League without any conflict with the Congress policy. Indeed,
the Congress had already declared for independence. And again
I agreed. It was surprising how easy it was to win me over to
a withdrawal of my resignation. This happened on many
occasions, and as neither party really liked the idea of a break,
we clung to every pretext to avoid it.

Gandhiji took no part in these All-Party Conference or Com-
mittee meetings. He was not even present at the Lucknow
Conference.

Meanwhile the Simon Commission had been moving about,
pursued by black flags and hostile crowds shouting, " Go back.”

174 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Occasionally there were minor conflicts between the police and
the crowds. Lahore brought matters to a head ana suddenly
sent .a thrill of indignation throughout the country. The antt-
Simon Commission demonstration there was headed by Lala
Lajpat Rai, and as he stood by the road-side in front of the
thousands of demonstrators he was assaulted and beaten on his
chest with a baton by a young English police officer. There had
been no attempt whatever on the part of the crowd.much less
on the part of Lalaji, to indulge in any methods of violence.
Even so. as he stood peace^lly by, he and many of his com-
panions were severely beaten by the police. Any one who takes
part in street demonstrations runs the risk of a conflict with die
police, and, though our demonstrations were almost always per-
fectly peaceful, Lalaji must have known of this risk and taken
it consciously. But still, the manner of the assault, the needless
brutality of it, came as a shock to vast numbers of people in
India. Those were the days when we were not used to lathi
charges by the police; our sensitiveness had not been blunted
by repeated brutality. To find that even the greatest of our
leaders, the foremost and most popular man in the Punjab,
could be so treated seemed little short of monstrous, and a dull
anger spread all over the country, especially in north India.
How helpless we were, how despicable when we could not even
protect tne honour of our chosen leaders 1
The physical injury to Lalaji had been serious enough, as he
had been hit on the chest and he had long suffered from heart
disease. Probably, in the case of a healthy young man the
injury would not have been great, but Lalaji was neither young
nor healthy. What effect this physical injury had on his death a
few weeks later it is hardly possible to say definitely, though his
doctors were of opinion that it hastened the end. But I think
that there can be no doubt that the mental shock which accom-

S inied the physical injury had a tremendous effect on Lalaji.

e felt angry and bitter, not so much at the personal humilia-
tion, as at the national humiliation involved in the assault on
him.

It was this sense of national humiliation that weighed on the
mind of India, and when Lalaji’s death came soon after, inevit-
ably it was connected with the assault, and sorrow itself gave
pride of place to anger and indignation. It is well to appreciate
this, for only so can we have some understanding of subsequent
events, of the phenomenon of Bhagat Singh, and of his sudden
apd amazing popularity in north India. It is very easy and very
fatuous to condemn persons or acts without seeking to under-

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*75

stand the springs of action, the causes that underlie them.
Bhagat Singh was not previously well known; he did not become
popular because of an act of violence, an act of terrorism. Ter-
rorists have flourished in India, off and on, for nearly thirty
years, and at no time, except in the early days in Bengal, did any
of them attain a fraction of that popularity which came to
Bhagat Singh. This is a patent fact which cannot be denied; it
has to be admitted. And another fact, which is equally obvious,
is that terrorism, in spite of occasional recrudescence, has no
longer any real appeal for the youth of India. Fifteen years’
stress on non-violence has changed the whole background in
India and made the masses much more indifferent to, and even
hostile to, the idea of terrorism as a method of political action.
Even the classes from which the terrorists are usually drawn, the
lower middle-classes and intelligentsia, have been powerfully
affected by the Congress propaganda against methods of
violence. Their active and impatient elements, who think in
terms of revolutionary action, also realise fully now that revolu-
tion does not come through terrorism, and that terrorism is an
outworn and profitless method which comes in the way of real
revolutionary action. Terrorism is a dying thing in India and
elsewhere, not because of Government coercion, which can only
suppress and bottle up, not eradicate, but because of basic causes
and world events. Terrorism usually represents the infancy of
a revolutionary urge in a country. That stage passes, and with
it passes terrorism as an important phenomenon. Occasional
outbursts may continue because of local causes or individual
suppressions. India has undoubtedly passed that stage, and no
doubt even the occasional outbursts will gradually die out. But
this does not mean that all people in India have ceased to believe
in methods of violence. They have, very largely, ceased to be-
lieve in individual violence and terrorism but many, no doubt,
still think that a time may come when organised, violent
methods may be necessaiy for gaining freedom, as they have
often been necessary in other countries. Thai is to-day an
academic issue which time alone will put to the test; it has
nothing to do with terroristic methods.

Bhagat Singh thus did not become popular because of his act
of terrorism, but because he seemed to vindicate, for the
moment, the honour of Lala Lajpat Rai, and through him of
the nation. He became a symbol; the act was forgotten, the
symbol remained, and within a few months each town and
village of the Punjab, and to a lesser extent in the rest of
northern India, resounded with his name. Innumerable songs

176 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

grew up about him, and the popularity that the man achieved
was something amazing.

A short time after the Simon Commission beating, Lala Rajpat
Rai attended a meeting of the All-India Congress Committee
in Delhi. He bore marks of injuries, and was still suffering
from the after-effects. The meeting was held after the Lucknow
All-Parties Conference, and the question of Independence came
up for discussion in some form or other. I forget the exact point
that was in issue, but I remember speaking at some length, and
pointing out that the time had come for the Congress to choose
between a revolutionary outlook, which involved radical changes
in our political and social structure, and a reformist objective
and method. The speech had no importance, and I would have
forgotten it but for the fact that Lalaji replied to it in the Com-
mittee, and criticised some parts of it. One of his warnings was
to the effect that we should expect nothing from the British
Labour Party. That warning was not necessary so far as I was
concerned, for I was not an admirer of the official leadership
of British Labour; the only thing that could surprise me in
regard to it would have been to find it supporting the struggle
for India’s freedom, or doing anything effectively anti-imperialist
or likely to lead to socialism.

On returning to Lahore, Lalaji reverted to the subject of my
speech at the A.I.C.C. meeting, and began a series of articles
on various issues connected with it in his weekly journal The
People . Only the first article appeared; before the second could
come out in the next week's issue, he was dead. That first un-
finished article of his, perhaps his last writing for publication,
has had a melancholy interest for me.

XXV

EXPERIENCE OF LATHI CHARGES

The assault on Lala Lajpat Rai, and his subsequent death,
increased the vigour of the demonstrations against the Simon
Commission in the places which it subsequently visited. It was
due in* Lucknow, and the local Congress Committee made
extensive preparations for its ‘reception*. Huge processions,
meetings, and demonstrations were organised many days in
advance, both as propaganda and as rehearsals for the actual
show. I went to Lucknow, and was present at some of these.
The success of these preliminary demonstrations, which were
perfectly orderly and peaceful, evidently nettled the authorities,
and they began to obstruct and issue orders against the taking
out of processions in certain areas. It was in this connection
that I had a new experience, and my body felt the baton and
lathi blows of the police.

Processions had been prohibited, ostensibly to avoid any inter-
ference with the traffic. We decided to give no cause for com-
plaint on this score, and arranged for small groups of sixteen,
as far as I can remember, to go separately, along unfrequented
routes to the meeting place. Technically, this was no doubt a
breach of the order, for sixteen with a flag were a procession.
I led one of the groups of sixteen and, after a big gap, came
another such group under the leadership of my colleague,
Govind Ballabh Pant. My group had gone perhaps about two
hundred yards, the road was a deserted one, when we heard
the clatter of horses* hoofs behind us. We looked back to find
a bunch of mounted police, probably two or three dozen in
number, bearing down upon us at a rapid pace. They were soon
right upon us, and the impact of the horses broke up our little
column of sixteen. The mounted policemen* then started
belabouring our volunteers with huge batons or truncheons and,
instinctively, the volunteers sought refuge on the side-walks, and
some even entered the petty shops. They were pursued and
beaten down. My own instinct had urged me to seek safety when
I saw the horses charging down upon us; it was a discouraging
sight. But then, I suppose, some other instinct held me to my

E lace and I survived the first charge, which had been checked
y the volunteers behind me. Suddenly I found myself alone in
the middle of the road; a few yards away from me, in various
o 177

178 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

directions, were the policemen beating down our volunteers.
Automatically, I began moving slowly to the side of the road
to be less conspicuous, but again I stopped and had a little argu-
ment with myself, and decided that it would be unbecoming
for me to move away. All this was a matter of a few seconds
only, but I have the clearest recollections of that conflict within
me and the decision, prompted by my pride, I suppose, which
could not tolerate the idea of my behaving like a coward. Yet
the line between cowardice and courage was a thin one, and I
might well have been on the other side. Hardly had I so decided,
when I looked round to find that a mounted policeman was
trotting up to me, brandishing his long new baton. I told him
to go ahead, and turned my head away— again an instinctive
effort to save the head and face. He gave me two resounding
blows on the back. I felt stunned, and my body quivered all
over but, to my surprise and satisfaction, I found that I was still
standing. The police force was withdrawn soon after, and made
to block the road in front of us. Our volunteers gathered
together again, many of them bleeding and with split skulls,
and we were joined by Pant and his lot, who had also been
belaboured, and all of us sat down facing the police. So we sat
for an hour or so, and it became dark. On the one side, various
high officials gathered; on the other, large crowds began to
assemble as the news spread. Ultimately, the officials agreed to
allow us to go by our original route, and we went that way
with the mounted policemen, who had charged us and belab-
oured us, going ahead of us as a kind of escort.

I have written about this petty incident in some detail because
of its effect on me. The bodily pain I felt was quite forgotten
in a feeling of exhilaration that I was physically strong enough
to face and bear lathi blows. And a thing that surprised me was
that right through the incident, even when I was being beaten,
my mind was quite clear and I was consciously analysing my
feelings. This rehearsal stood me in good stead the next
morning, when a stiffer trial was in store for us. For the next
morning was the time when the Simon Commission was due
to arrive, and our great demonstration was going to take place.

My father was at Allahabad at the time, and I was afraid
that the news of the assault on me, wEen he read about it in
the next morning’s papers, would upset him and the rest of
the family. So I telephoned to him late in the evening to assure
him that all was well, and that he should not worry. But he
did worry and, finding it difficult to sleep over it, he decided at
about midnight to come over to Lucknow. The last train had

EXPERIENCE OF LATHI CHARGES 179

gone, and so he started by motor-car. He had some bad luck
on the way, and it was nearly five in the morning by the time
he had covered the journey of 146 miles and reached Lucknow,
tired out and exhausted.

That was about the time when we were getting ready to go
in procession to the station. The previous evening’s incidents
had the effect of rousing up Lucknow more than anything that
we could have done, and even before the sun was out, vast
numbers of people made their way to the station. Innumerable
little processions came from various parts of the city, and from
the Congress office started the main procession, consisting of
several thousands, marching in fours. We were in this main
procession. We were stopped by the police as we approached
the station. There was a huge open space, about half a mile
square, in front of the station (this has now been built over by
the new station) and we were made to line up on one side of
this maidan , and there our procession remained, making no
attempt to push our way forward. The place was full of foot
and mounted police, as well as the military. The crowd of
sympathetic onlookers swelled up, and many of these persons
managed to spread out in twos and threes in the open space.
Suddenly we saw in the far distance a moving mass. They
were two or three long lines of cavalry or mounted police,
covering the entire area, galloping down towards us, and
striking and riding down the numerous stragglers that dotted
the maidan . That charge of galloping horsemen was a fine
sight, but for the tragedies that were being enacted on the
way, as harmless and very much surprised sightseers went
under the horses’ hoofs. Behind the charging lines these people
lay on the ground, some still unable to move, others writhing
in pain, and the whole appearance of that maidan was that of
a battlefield. But we did not have much time for gazing on
that scene or for reflections; the horsemen were soon upon us,
and their front line clashed almost at a gallop with the massed
ranks of our processionists. We held our groifnd, and, as we
appeared to be unyielding, the horses had to pull up at the
last moment and reared up on their hind legs with their front
hoofs quivering in the air over our heads. And then began
a beating of us, and battering with lathis and long batons
both by the mounted and the foot police. It was a tremendous
hammering, and the clearness of vision that I had had the
evening before left me. All I knew was that I had to stay
where I was, and must not yield or go back. I felt half blinded
with the blows, and sometimes a dull anger seized me and a

l8o JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

desire to hit out. I thought how easy it would be to pull down
the police officer in front of me from his horse and to mount
up myself, but long training and discipline held and I did not
raise a hand, except to protect my face from a blow. Besides,
I knew well enough that any aggression on our part would
result in a ghastly tragedy, the firing and shooting down of
large numbers of our men.

After what seemed a tremendous length of time, but was
probably only a few minutes, our line began to yield slowly,
step by step, without breaking up. This left me somewhat
isolated, and more exposed at the sides. More blows came, and
then I was suddenly lifted off my feet from behind and carried
off, to my great annoyance. Some of my young colleagues,
thinking that a dead-set was being made at me, had decided to
protect me in this summary fashion.

Our processionists lined up again about a hundred feet behind
our original line. The police also withdrew and stood in a line,
fifty feet apart from us. So we remained, when the cause of
all this trouble, the Simon Commission, secretly crept away
from the station in the far distance, more than half a mile
away. But, even so, they did not escape the black flags or demon-
strators. Soon after, we came back in full procession to the
Congress office, and there dispersed, and I went on to father,
who was anxiously waiting for us.

Now that the excitement of the moment had passed, I felt
pains all over my body and great fatigue. Almost every part
of me seemed to ache, and I was covered with contused wounds
and marks of blows. But fortunately I was not injured in any
vital spot. Many of our companions were less fortunate, and
were badly injured. Govind Ballabh Pant, who stood by me,
offered a much bigger target, being six foot odd in height, and
the injuries he received then have resulted in a painful and
persistent malady which prevented him for a long time from
straightening his back or leading an active life. I emerged with
a somewhat greater conceit of my physical condition and
powers of endurance. But the memory that endures with me,
far more than that of the beating itself, is that of many of
the faces of those policemen, and especially of the officers, who
were attacking us. Most of the real beating and battering was
done by European sergeants, the Indian rank and file were
milder in their methods. And those faces, full of hate and
blood-lust, almost mad, with no trace of sympathy or touch of
humanity! Probably the faces on our side just then were
equally hateful to look at, and the fact that we were mostly

EXPERIENCE OF LATHI CHARGES 1 8 1

passive did not fill our minds and hearts with love for our
opponents, or add to the beauty of our countenances. And yet,
we had no grievance against each other; no quarrel that was
personal, no ill-will. We happened to represent, for the time
being, strange and powerful forces which held us in thrall and
cast us hither and thither, and, subtly gripping our minds and
hearts, roused our desires and passions and made us their blind
tools. Blindly we struggled, not knowing what we struggled for
and whither we went. The excitement of action held us; but,
as it passed, immediately the question arose : To what end was
all this? To what end?

XXVI

TRADE UNION CONGRESS

The Simon Commission boycott and the All Parties Conference
bulked largely politically in the country that year, but my own
interest and activities lay largely in other directions. As working
General Secretary of the Congress, I was busy in looking after
and strengthening its organisation, and I was particularly in-
terested in directing people’s attention to social and economic
changes. The position gained in Madras in regard to Inde-
pendence had also to be consolidated, especially as the tendency
of the All Parties Conference was to pull us back. With this
purpose in view I travelled a great deal and addressed many im-
portant gatherings. I presided, I think, over four provincial
conferences in 1928 — in the Punjab, in Malabar in the South, in
Delhi, and in the United Provinces— as well as over Youth
Leagues and Students’ Conferences in Bengal and Bombay. From
time to time I visited rural areas in the U.P. and occasionally I
addressed industrial workers. The burden of my speeches was
always much the same though the form varied according to local
circumstances and the stress depended on the kind of audience I
happened to be addressing. Everywhere I spoke on political
independence and social freedom and made the former a step
towards the attainment of the latter. I wanted to spread the
ideology of socialism especially among Congress workers and
the intelligentsia, for these people, who were the backbone of the
national movement, thought largely in terms of the narrowest
nationalism. Their speeches laid stress on the glories of old
times; the injuries, material and spiritual, caused by alien rule;
the sufferings of our people ; the indignity of foreign domination
over us and our national honour demanding that we should be
free; the necessity for sacrifice at the altar of the motherland.
They were familiar themes which found an echo in every Indian
heart, and the nationalist in me responded to them and was
moved by them (though I was never a blind admirer of ancient
times in' India or elsewhere). But though the truth in them re-
mained, they seemed to grow a little thin and thread-bare with
constant use, and their ceaseless repetition prevented the con-
sideration of other problems and vital aspects of our struggle.
They only fostered emotion and did not encourage thought.

I was by no means a pioneer in the socialist field in India. In-

18*

TRADE UNION CONGRESS 183

deed I was rather backward and I had only advanced painfully,
step by step, where many others had gone ahead blazing a trail.
The workers’ trade union movement was, ideologically, definitely
socialist, and so were the majority of the Youth Leagues. A
vague confused socialism was already part of the atmosphere of
India when I returned from Europe in December 1927, and even
earlier than that there were many individual socialists. Mostly
they thought along utopian lines, but Marxian theory was in-
fluencing them increasingly, and a few considered themselves as
hundred per cent. Marxists. This tendency was strengthened in
India, as in Europe and America, by developments in the Soviet
Union, and particularly the Five-Year Plan.

Such importance as I possessed as a socialist worker lay in the
fact that I happened to be a prominent Congressman holding
important Congress offices. There were many other well-known
Congressmen who were beginning to think likewise. This was
most marked in the U.P. Provincial Congress Committee, and in
this Committee we even tried, as early as 1926, to draw up a mild
socialist programme. We are a zamindari and taluqadari pro-
vince, and the first question we had to face was that of the
land. We declared that the existing land system must go and
that there should be no intermediaries between the State and the
cultivator. We had to proceed cautiously, as we were moving in
an atmosphere which was, till then, unusued to such ideas.

The next year, 1929, the U.P. Provincial Congress Committee
went a step further and made a recommendation, definitely on
socialist lines, to the All-India Congress Committee. This latter
Committee, meeting in Bombay in the summer of 1929, adopted
the preamble of the U.P. resolution and thus accepted the prin-
ciple of socialism underlying the whole resolution. The con-
sideration of the detailed programme given in the U.P. resolution
was postponed for a later date. Most people seem to have for-
gotten these resolutions of the A.I.C.C. and the U.P.P.C.C. and
imagine that the subject of socialism has suddenly cropped up in
the Congress during the last year or so. It is t*ue, however, that
the A.I.C.C. passed that resolution without giving much thought
to it and most members probably did not realise what they were
doing.

The U.P. branch of the Independence for India League (con-
sisting entirely of principal Congress workers in the province)
was definitely socialistic and it went a little further than a mixed
body like the Congress Committee could go. Indeed one of the
objects of the Independence League was social freedom. We had
hoped to build up a strong League organisation all over India

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

184

and utilize it for propaganda in favour of independence and
socialism. Unhappily, and much to my disappointment, the
League never got going except to some extent in the U.P. This
was not because of lack of support in the country. But most of
our workers were also prominent workers in the Congress, and,
the Congress having adopted Independence in theory at least,
they could always work through the Congress organisation.
Another reason was that some of the original sponsors of the
League did not take it seriously enough as an organisation to be
developed. They looked upon it as something to be used for
bringing pressure to bear on the Congress executive, or even for
influencing the elections for the Congress Working Committee.
So the Independence League languished, and as the Congress
grew more aggressive, it drew all the dynamic elements towards
itself and the League grew weaker. With the coming of the Civil
Disobedience struggle in 1930, the League got merged into the
Congress and disappeared.

In the second half of 1928 and in 1929 there was frequent talk
of my arrest. I do not know what reality lay behind the press
references and the numerous private warnings I received from
friends who seemed to be in the know, but the warnings pro-
duced a feeling of uncertainty in me and I felt I was always on
the verge of it. I did not mind this particularly as I knew that,
whatever the future held for me, it could not be a settled life of
routine. The sooner I got used to uncertainty and sudden changes
and visits to prison the better. And I think that on the whole I
succeeded in getting used to the idea (and to a much lesser extent
my people also succeeded) and whenever arrest came I took it
more casually than I might otherwise have done. So rumours of
arrest were not without compensation ; they gave a certain ex-
citement and a bite to my daily existence. Every day of freedom
was something precious, a day gained. As a matter of fact I
had a long innings in 1928 and 1929, and arrest came at last as
late as April 1930. Since then my brief periods outside prison
have had a measure of unreality about them, and I have lived in
my house as a stranger on a short visit, or moved about uncer-
tainly, not knowing what the morrow would hold for me, and
with the constant expectation of a call back to gaol.

As 1928 approached its appointed end, the Calcutta Congress
drew near. My father was to preside over it. He was full of the
Ail Parties Conference arid of his Report to it and wanted to
push this through the Congress. To this he knew that I was not
agreeable, because 1 was not prepared to compromise on the
Independence issue, and this irritated him. We did not argue

TRADE UNION CONGRESS 185

about the matter much, but there was a definite feeling of mental
conflict between us, an attempt to pull different ways. Dif-
ferences of opinion we had often had before, vital differences
which had kept us in different political camps. But I do not
think that at any previous or subsequent occasion the tension had
been so great. Both of us were rather unhappy about it. In
Calcutta matters came to this, that my father made it known
that if he could not have his way in the Congress — that is, if he
could not have a majority for the resolution in favour of the
All Parties Report — he would refuse to preside over the Congress.
That was a perfectly reasonable and constitutional course to
adopt. None the less it was disconcerting to many of his oppo-
nents who did not wish to force the issue to this extent. There
has often been a tendency in the Congress, and elsewhere, I
suppose, to criticise and condemn and yet shrink from accepting
responsibility; there is always a hope that the criticism will make
the other party change its course to our advantage without cast-
ing on us the burden of piloting the boat. Where responsibility
is withheld from us and there is an irremovable and irresponsible
executive, as there is in the Government of India to-day, criticism
is all that is open to us (apart, of course, from action), and that
criticism is bound to be negative criticism. Even so, if that
negative criticism is to be effective, there must be behind it
the mental preparation and preparedness to assume full con-
trol and responsibility whenever the opportunity offers itself
— control over every department of government, civil and mili-
tary, internal and foreign. To ask for partial control only, as,
for instance, the Liberals do in the matter of the army, is to
confess our inability to run the show and to take the sting out
of the criticism.

This attitude of criticism and condemnation and yet a shrink-
ing back from the natural consequences thereof, has been frequent
in the case of Gandhiji’s critics. There have been a number of
people in the Congress who dislike many of his activities and
criticise them strongly but who are not prepared tp drive him out
of the Congress. This attitude is easy to understand but it is
hardly fair to either party.

Some such difficulties arose at the Calcutta Congress. There
were negotiations between the two groups, and a compromise
formula was announced, and then this fell through. It was all
rather confusing and not very edifying. The main resolution of
the Congress, as it was finally adopted, accepted the All Parties
Report but intimated that if the British Government did not
agree to that constitution within a year, the Congress would

1 86

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

revert to Independence. It was an offer of a year’s grace and a
polite ultimatum. The resolution was no doubt a come-down
from the ideal of independence, for the All Parties Report did
not even ask for full Dominion Status. And yet it was probably
a wise resolution in the sense that it prevented a split when no
one was ready for it, and kept the Congress together for the
struggle that began in 1930. It was clear enough that the British
Government were not going to accept the All Parties Constitu-
tion within a year. The struggle was inevitable and, as matters
stood in the country, no such struggle could be at all effective
without Gandhiji’s lead.

I had opposed the resolution in the open Congress, though I
did so half-heartedly. And yet I was again elected General
Secretary 1 Whatever happened I managed to stick on to the
secretaryship, and in the Congress sphere I seemed to act the
part of the famous Vicar of Bray. Whatever president sat on
the Congress throne, still I was secretary in charge of the organi-
sation.

A few days before the Calcutta Congress, the All-India Trade
Union Congress was held at Jharia, the centre of the coal mine
area. I attended and participated in it for the first two days and
then had to go away to Calcutta. It was my first Trade Union
Congress and I was practically an outsider, though my activities
amongst the peasantry, and lately amongst the workers, had
gained for me a measure of popularity with the masses. I found
the old tussle going on between the reformists and the more
advanced and revolutionary elements. The main points in issue
were the question of affiliation to one of the Internationals, as
well as to the League against Imperialism and the Pan-Pacific
Union, and the desirability of sending representatives to the
International Labour Office Conference at Geneva. More impor-
tant than these questions was the vast difference in outlook
between the two sections of the Congress. There was the old
trade union group, moderate in politics and indeed distrusting
the intrusion of politics in industrial matters. They believed in
industrial action only and that too of a cautious character, and
aimed at the gradual betterment of workers’ conditions. The
leader of this group was N. M. Joshi, who had often represented
Indian labour at Geneva. The other group was more militant,
believed in' political action, and openly proclaimed its revolu-
tionary outlook. It was influenced, though by no means con-
trolled, by some Communists and near-Communists. Bombay
textile labour had been captured by this group, and under their
leadership there had been a great, and partly successful, textile

TRADE UNION CONGRESS

187

strike in Bombay. A new and powerful textile union had risen
in Bombay, the Gimi Kamgar Union, which dominated the
labour situation in Bombay. Another powerful union under
the influence of the advanced group was the G.I.P. Railway
Union.

Ever since the inception of the Trade Union Congress the
executive and the office had been in the control of N. M. Joshi
and his close colleagues, and Joshi had been responsible for
building up the movement. The radical group, though more

S owerful in the rank and file, had little opportunity of in-
uencing policy at the top. This was an unsatisfactory position
and it did not reflect the true state of affairs. There was dissatis-
faction and friction and a desire on the part of the radical
elements to seize power in the T.U.C. At the same time there
was a disinclination to carry matters too far, for a split was
feared. The trade union movement was still in its early youth in
India; it was weak and was largely being run by non-worker
leaders. Always, under such circumstances, there is a tendency
for outsiders to exploit workers and this was obvious enough in
the Indian T.U.C. and labour unions. N. M. Joshi had, however,
proved himself, by years of work, a sound and earnest trade
unionist, and even those who considered him politically back-
ward and moderate, acknowledged the worth of his services to
the Indian Labour movement. This could be said of few others,
moderate or advanced.

My own sympathies at Jharia were with the advanced group
but, being a newcomer, I felt a little at sea in these domestic
conflicts of the T.U.C. and I decided to keep aloof from them.
After I had left Jharia the annual T.U.C. elections took place,
and I learnt at Calcutta that I had been elected president for the
next year. I had been put forward by the moderate group,
probably because they felt that I stood the best chance of defeat-
ing the other candidate who was an actual worker (on the
railways) and who had been put forward by the radical group.
If I had been present at Jharia on the day of the election I
am sure that I would have withdrawn in favour of the worker
candidate. It seemed to me positively indecent that a newcomer
and a non-worker should be suddenly thrust into the president-
ship. This was in itself a measure of the infancy and weakness
of the trade union movement in India.

Nineteen twenty-eight had been full of labour disputes and
strikes; nineteen twenty-nine carried on likewise. Bombay textile
labour, miserable and militant, took the lead in these strikes.
There was a big general strike in the Bengal Jute Mills. There

l88 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

were also strikes in the Iron Works at Jamshedpur, and, I think,
on the railways. A long drawn out struggle, bravely carried on
for many months, took place in the Tin Plate Works in Jam-
shedpur. In spite of great public sympathy, the workers were
crushed by the powerful company (connected with the Burma
Oil Company) owning these works.

Altogether the two years were full of industrial unrest, and
the conditions of labour were deteriorating. The post-war years
had been boom years for industry in India and the most
stupendous profits had been made. For five or six years the
average dividend in the jute or cotton mills exceeded a hundred
per cent, and was often 1 50 per cent, per annum. All these huge
profits went to the owners and shareholders, and the workers
continued as before. The slight rise in wages was usually counter-
balanced by a rise in prices. During these days when millions
were being made feverishly, most of the workers continued to
live in the most miserable of hovels, and even their women-
folk had hardly clothes to wear. The conditions in Bombay
were bad enough, but perhaps even worse was the lot of the
jute workers, within an hour’s drive of the palaces of Calcutta.
Semi-naked women, wild and unkempt, working away for the
barest pittance, so that a broad river of wealth should flow
ceaselessly to Glasgow and Dundee, as well as to some pockets
in India.

In the boom years all went well for industry, though the
workers carried on as before and profited little. But when the
boom passed and it was not so easy to make large profits, the
burden, of course, fell on the workers. The old profits were
forgotten; they had been consumed. And if profits were not now
sufficient, how could industry run? And so there was industrial
unrest and labour troubles and the gigantic strikes in Bombay
which impressed everybody and frightened both the employers
and Government. The Labour Movement was becoming class-
conscious, militant and dangerous, both in ideology and in
organisation. The political situation was also developing fast,
and, though the two were separate and unconnected, they were
partly parallel, and the Government could not contemplate the
future with any satisfaction.

In March 19*9 the Government struck suddenly at organised
labour by arresting some of its most prominent workers from the
advanced groups. The leaders of the Bombay Gimi Kamgar
Union were taken, as well as labour leaders from Bengal, the
U.P. and the Punjab. Some of these were communists, others
were near-communists, yet others were just trade unionists. This

TRADE UNION CONGRESS 189

was the beginning of the famous Meerut trial which lasted for
four years and a half.

A defence committee was formed for the Meerut accused, of
which my father was chairman, Dr. Ansari and others, including
myself, were members. We had a difficult task. Money
was not easy to collect; it seemed that the moneyed people had
no great sympathy for communists and socialists and labour
agitators. And lawyers would only sell their services for a full
pound of somebody’s flesh. We had some eminent lawyers on
our Committee, my father and others, and they were always
available for consultation and general guidance. That did not
cost us anything, but it was not possible for them to sit down in
Meerut for months at a time. The other lawyers whom we
approached seemed to look upon the case as a means of making
as much money as possible.

Apart from the Meerut Case I have been connected with some
other defence committees — in M. N. Roy’s case and others. On
each occasion I have marvelled at the cupidity of men of my own
profession. My first big shock came during the Punjab Martial
Law trials in 1919 when a very eminent leader of the profession
insisted on his full fee — and it was a huge fee — from the victims
of Martial Law, one of them even a fellow-lawyer, and many
of these people had to borrow money or sell property to pay him.
My later experiences v/ere even more painful. We had to collect
money, often in coppers from the poorest workers, and pay
out fat cheques to lawyers. It went against the grain. And
the whole process seemed so futile for, whether we defended a
political or labour case or not, the result was likely to be the
same. In a case like the Meerut trial a defence was, of course,
obviously called for from many points of view.

The Meerut Case Defence Committee did not have an easy
time with the accused. There were different kinds of people
among these, with different types of defences, and often there was
an utter absence of harmony among them. After some months
we wound up the formal committee, but we continued to help
in our individual capacities. The development of the political
situation was absorbing more and more of our attention, and in
1930 all of us were ourselves in gaol.

XXVII

THUNDER IN THE AIR

The 1929 Congress was going to be held in Lahore. After ten
years it had come back to the Punjab, and people’s minds leapt
over that decade and went back to the events of 1919 — Jallian-
wala Bagh, martial law with all its humiliations, the Congress
sessions at Amritsar, to be followed by the beginnings of non-
co-operation. Much had happened during this decade and
India’s face had changed, but there was no lack of parallels.
Political tension was growing; the atmosphere of struggle was
developing fast. The long shadow of the conflict to come lay
over the land.

The Legislative Assembly and the Provincial Councils had
long ceased to interest any one, except the handful who moved
in their sacred orbits. They carried on in their humdrum way,
providing some kind of a cloak — a torn and tattered affair —
to the authoritarian and despotic nature of the Government,
an excuse to some people to talk of India’s parliament, and
allowances to their members. The last successful effort of the
Assembly to draw attention to itself was when it passed a
resolution in 1928 refusing its co-operation to the Simon Com-
mission.

There had also been subsequently a conflict between the
Chair and the Government. Vithalbhai Patel, the Swarajist
President of the Assembly, had become a thorn in the tender
side of the Government on account of his independence (of
them) and attempts were made to clip his wings. Such hap-
penings attracted attention but, on the whole, the public mind
was now concentrated on events outside. My father was
thoroughly disillusioned with Council wojjc, and often expressed
his opinion that nothing more could be got out of the legis-
latures at that stage. He wanted to get out of them himself
if an opportunity presented itself. Constitutionally minded as
he was and used to legal methods and procedure, force of cir-
cumstances had driven him to the painful conclusion that the
so-called constitutional methods were ineffective and futile in
India. He would justify this to his own legalist mind by saying
that there was no constitution in India, nor was there any real
rule of law when laws, in the shape of ordinances and the like,
appeared suddenly, like rabbits from a conjurer’s hat, at the

190

THUNDER IN THE AIR 191

will of an individual or a dictating group. In temperament and
habit he was far from being a revolutionary, and if there had
been anything like bourgeois democracy, he would undoubtedly
have been a pillar of the constitution. But, as it was, talk of
constitutional agitation in India, with a parade of a sham
parliament, began to irritate him more and more.

Gandhiji was still keeping away from politics, except for the
part he played at the Calcutta Congress. He was, however, in
full touch with developments and was often consulted by the
Congress leaders. His main activity for some years had been
Khadi propaganda, and with this object he had undertaken
extensive tours all over India. He took each province by turn
and visited every district and almost every town of any conse-
quence, as well as remote rural areas. Everywhere he attracted
enormous crowds, and it required a great deal of previous
staff-work to carry through his programme. In this manner
he has repeatedly toured India and got to know every bit of
the vast country from the north to the far south, from the
eastern mountains to the western sea. I do not think any other
human being has ever travelled about India as much as he has
done.

In the past there were great wanderers who were continually
on the move, pilgrim souls with the wanderlust, but their means
of locomotion were slow, and a life-time of such wandering
could hardly compete with a year by railway and motor-car.
Gandhiji went by railway and automobile, but he did not con-
fine himself to them; he tramped also. In this way he gathered
his unique knowledge of India and her people, and in this way
also scores of millions saw him and came into personal touch
with him.

He came to the United Provinces in 1929 on his khadi tour,
and spent many weeks in these provinces during the hottest
part of the year. I accompanied him occasionally for a few
days at a time and, despite previous experience, could not help
marvelling at the vast crowds he attracted. This was especially
noticeable in our eastern districts, like Gorakhpur, where the
swarms of human beings reminded one of hordes of locusts.
As we motored through the rural areas, we would havfe gather-
ings of from ten thousand to twenty-five thousand every few
miles, and the principal meeting of the day might even exceed
a hundred thousand. There were no broadcasting facilities,
except rarely in a few big cities, and it was manifestly impos-
sible to be heard by these crowds. Probably they did not expect
to hear anything; they were satisfied, if they saw the Mahatma.

191 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Gandhiji usually addressed them briefly, avoiding undue strain;
it would have been quite impossible to carry on otherwise in
this fashion from hour to hour and day to day.

I did not accompany him throughout his U.P. tour as I could
be of no special use to him, and there was no point in my
adding to the number of the touring party. I had no objection
to crowds, but there was not sufficient inducement to get pushed
and knocked about and my feet crushed — the usual rate of
people accompanying Gandhiji. I had plenty of other work to
do, and had no desire to confine myself to khadi propaganda,
which seemed to me a relatively minor activity in view of the
developing political situation. To some extent I resented Gand-
hiji’s pre-occupation with non-political issues, and 1 could never
understand the background of his thought. In those days he
was collecting funds for khadi work, and he would say fre-
quently that he wanted money for Daridranarayan, the ‘ Lord
of the Poor’, or ‘God that resides in the Poor'; meaning
thereby, presumably, that he wanted it to help the poor to find
employment and work in cottage industries. But behind that
word there seemed to be a glorification of poverty; God was
especially the Lord of the poor; they were His chosen people.
That, I suppose, is the usual religious attitude everywhere. I
could not appreciate it, for poverty seemed to me a hateful
thing, to be fought and rooted out and not to be encouraged
in any way. This inevitably led to an attack on a system which
tolerated and produced poverty, and those who shrunk from
this had of necessity to justify poverty in some way. They
could only think in terms of scarcity and could not picture a
world abundantly supplied with the necessaries of life; prob-
ably, according to them, the rich and the poor would always
be with us.

Whenever I had occasion to discuss this with Gandhiji
he would lay stress on the rich treating their riches as a
trust for the people; it was a view-point of considerable
antiquity, and one comes across it frequently in India as well
as medieval Europe. I confess that I have always been wholly
unable to understand how any person can reasonably expect
this to happen, or imagine that therein lies the solution of the
social problem.

The Legislative Assembly, as I have said above, was becoming
a, somnolent affair and few people took interest in its dreary
activities. A rude awakening came to it one day when Bhagat
Singh and B. K. Dutt threw two bombs from the visitors’ gallery
on to the floor of the house. No one was seriously hurt, and

THUNDER IN THE AIR

•93

probably the bombs were intended, as was stated by the
accused later, to make a noise and create a stir, and not to
injure.

They did create a stir both in the Assembly and outside. Other
activities of Terrorists were not so innocuous. A young English
police officer, who was alleged to have hit Lala Lajpat Rai,
was shot down and killed in Lahore. In Bengal and elsewhere
there seemed to be a recrudescence of terrorist activity. A
number of conspiracy cases were launched, and the number of
detenus — people kept in prison or otherwise detained without
trial or conviction— rapidly increased.

In the Lahore conspiracy case some extraordinary scenes were
enacted in the court by the police, and a great deal of public
attention was drawn to the case because of this. As a protest
against the treatment given to them in court and in prison,
there was a hunger-strike on the part of most of the prisoners.
I forget the exact reason why it began, but ultimately the
question involved became the larger one of treatment of
prisoners, especially Politicals. This hunger-strike went on from
week to week and created a stir in the country. Owing to the
physical weakness of the accused, they could not be taken to
court, and the proceedings had to be adjourned repeatedly.
The Government of India thereupon initiated legislation to
allow court proceedings to continue even in the absence of the
accused or their counsel. The question of prison treatment had
also to be considered by them.

I happened to be in Lahore when the hunger-strike was
already a month old. I was given permission to visit some of
the prisoners in the prison, and I availed myself of this. I
saw Bhagat Singh for the first time, and Jatindranath Das and
a few others. They were all very weak and bed-ridden, and it
was hardly possible to talk to them much. Bhagat Singh had
an attractive, intellectual face, remarkably calm and peaceful.
There seemed to be no anger in it. He looked and talked with
great gentleness, but then I suppose that any one who has been
fasting for a month will look spiritual and gentle. Jatin Das
looked milder still, soft and gentle like a young girl. He was in
considerable pain when I saw him. He died later, as a result of
fasting, on the sixty-first day of the hunger-strike.

Bhagat Singh’s chief ambition seemed to be to see, or at least
to have news of, his uncle, Sardar Ajit Singh, who had been
deported, together with Lala Lajpat Rai, in 1907. For many
years he had been an exile abroad. There were some vague
reports that he had settled in South America, but I do not

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

>94

think anything definite is known about him. I do not even
know if he is alive or dead.

Jatin Das’s death created a sensation all over the country. It
brought the question of the treatment of political prisoners to
the front, and Government appointed a committee on the sub-
ject. As a result of the deliberations of this committee, new
rules were issued creating three classes of prisoners. No special
class of political prisoners was created. These new rules, which
seemed to promise a change for the better, as a matter of fact
made little difference, and the position remained, and still
remains, highly unsatisfactory.

As the summer and monsoon months gradually shaded off
into the autumn, the Provincial Congress Committees busied
themselves with the election of the President for the Lahore
session of the Congress. This election is a lengthy process, and
used to go on from August to October. In 1929 there was
almost unanimity in favour of Gandhiji. This desire to have
him as President for a second time did not, of course, push him
any higher in the Congress hierarchy, for he had been a kind
of super-president for many years, ft was generally felt, how-
ever, that as a struggle was impending, and he was bound to be
the de facto leader of it, he might as well be the de jure head
of the Congress for the occasion. Besides, there was really no
other person outstanding enough and obvious enough for the
presidentship.

So Gandhiji was recommended for the presidentship by
the Provincial Committees. But he would have none of
it. His refusal, though emphatic, seemed to leave some room
for argument, and it was hoped that he would reconsider it. A
meeting of the All-India Congress Committee was held in
Lucknow to decide finally, and sdmost to the last hour all of us
thought that he would agree. But he would not do so, and at
the last moment he pressed my name forward. The A.I.C.C.
was somewhat taken aback by his final refusal, and a little
irritated at being placed in a difficult and invidious position.
For want of any other person, and in a spirit of resignation,
they finally elected me.

I have seldom ielt quite so annoyed and humiliated as I did
at that election. It was not that I was not sensible of the
honour, for it was a great honour, and I would have rejoiced if
I had been elected in the ordinary way. But I did not come to
it by the main entrance or even a side entrance; I appeared
suddenly by a trap-door and bewildered the audience into
acceptance. They put a brave face on it, and, like a necessary

THUNDER IN THE AIR

*95

K ill, swallowed me. My pride was hurt, and almost I felt like
anding back the honour. Fortunately I restrained myself from
making an exhibition of myself, and stole away with a heavy
heart.

Probably the person who was happiest about this decision
was my father. He did not wholly like my politics, but he liked
me well enough, and any good thing that came my way pleased
him. Often he would criticise me and speak a little curtly to
me, but no person who cared to retain his goodwill could run
me down in his presence.

My election was indeed a great honour and a great responsi-
bility for me; it was unique in that a son was immediately
following his father in the presidential chair. It was often said
that I was the youngest President of the Congress — I was just
forty when I presided. This was not true. I think Gokhale was
about the same age, and Maulana Abul Kalam Azad (though
he is a little older than me) was probably just under forty when
he presided. But Gokhale was considered one of the elder
statesmen even when he was in his late thirties, and Abul
Kalam Azad has especially cultivated a look of venerable age
to give a suitable background to his great learning. As states-
manship has seldom been considered one of my virtues, and
no one has accused me of possessing an excess of learning, I
have escaped so far the accusation of age, though my hair has
turned grey and my looks betray me.

The Lahore Congress drew near. Meanwhile events were
marching, step by step, inevitably, pushed onward, so it seemed,
by some motive force of their own. Individuals, for all the
brave show they put up, played a very minor role. One had the
feeling of being a cog in a great machine which swept on
relentlessly.

Hoping perhaps to check this onward march of destiny, the
British Government took a forward step, and the Viceroy, Lord
Irwin, made an announcement about a forthcoming Round
Table Conference. It was an ingeniously worded announcement,
which could mean much or very little, and it seemed to many of
us obvious that the latter was tne more likely contingency. And
in any event, even if there was more in the announcement, it
could not be anywhere near what we wanted. Hardly had this
Viceregal announcement been made when, almost with indecent
haste, so it seemed, a “ Leaders’ Conference ” was arranged at
Delhi, and people from various groups were invited to it.
Gandhiji was there, so was my father; Vithalbhai Patel (still
President of the Assembly) was also there, and Moderate leaders

196 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

like Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and others. A joint resolution or
manifesto was agreed to, accepting the Viceroy’s declaration
subject to some conditions, which, it was stated, were vital and
must be fulfilled. If these conditions were accepted by Govern-
ment, then co-operation was to be offered. These conditions 1
were solid enough and would have made a difference.

It was a triumph to get such a resolution agreed to by repre-
sentatives of all the groups, moderate and advanced. For the
Congress it was a come-down; as a common measure of agree-
ment it was high. But there was a fatal catch in it. The condi-
tions were looked upon from at least two different view-points.
The Congress people considered them to be essential, the sine
qua non , without which there could be no co-operation. For
them they represented the minimum required. This was made
clear by a subsequent meeting of the Congress Working Com-
mittee, which further stated that this offer was limited to the date
of the next Congress. For the Moderate groups they were a
desirable maximum which should be stated, but which could
not be insisted on to the point of refusal of co-operation. For
them the conditions, though called vital, were not really condi-
tions.

And so it happened that later on, though none of these
conditions were satisfied and most of us lay in gaol, together
with scores of thousands of others, our Moderate and Respon-
sivist friends, who had signed that manifesto with us, gave their
full co-operation to our gaolers.

Most of us suspected that this would happen — though hardly
to the extent it did happen — but there was some hope that this
joint action, whereby the Congress people had to some extent
curbed themselves, would also result in curbing the propensities
of the Liberals and others to indiscriminate and almost invari-
able co-operation with the British Government. A more powerful
motive for some of us, who heartily disliked the compromising
resolution, was to keep our own Congress ranks well knit to-

1 The conditions were :

(1) All discussions at the proposed conference to be on the basis
of full Dominion Status for India.

(2) There should be a predominant representation of Congress-
men at the conference.

(&) A general amnesty of political prisoners.

(4) The Government of India to be carried on from now onwards,
as far as is possible under existing conditions, on the lines of a
Dominion government.

THUNDER IN THE AIR >97

gether. On the eve of a big struggle we could not afford to split
up the Congress. It was well known that Government was not
likely to accept the conditions laid down by us, and our position
would thus be stronger and we could easily carry our Right Wing
with us. It was only a question of a few weeks; December and
the Lahore Congress were near.

And yet that joint manifesto was a bitter pill for some of us.
To give up the demand for independence, even in theory and
even for a short while, was wrong and dangerous; it meant that
it was just a tactical affair, something to bargain with, not some-
thing which was essential and without which we could never be
content. So I hesitated and refused to sign the manifesto (Subhas
Bose had definitely refused to sign it), but, as was not unusual
with me, I allowed myself to be talked into signing. Even so, I
came away in great distress, and the very next day I thought of
withdrawing from the Congress presidentship, and wrote accord-
ingly to Gandhiji. I do not suppose that I meant this seriously,
though I was sufficiently upset. A soothing letter from Gandhiji
and three days of reflection calmed me.

Just prior to the Lahore Congress, a final attempt was made
to find some basis of agreement between Congress and the
Government. An interview with Lord Irwin, the Viceroy, was
arranged. I do not know who took the initiative in arranging
this interview, but I imagine that Vithalbhai Patel was the
prime mover. Gandhiji and my father were present at the inter-
view, representing the Congress view-point, and I think also
present were Mr. Jinnah, Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and President
Patel. The interview came to nothing; there was no common
ground, and the two main parties — the Government and Con-
gress — were far apart from each other. So now nothing remained
but for the Congress to go ahead. The year of grace given at
Calcutta was ending; independence was to be declared once for
all the objective of the Congress, and the necessary steps taken
to carry on the struggle to attain it.

During these final weeks prior to the Lahore Congress I had
to attend to important work in another field. The All-India
Trade Union Congress was meeting at Nagpur, and, as President
for the year, I had to preside over it. It was very unusual for the
same person to preside over both the National Congress and the
Trade Union Congress within a few weeks of each other. I had
hoped that I might be a link between the two and bring them
closer to each other — the National Congress to become more
socialistic, more proletarian, and organised Labour to join the
national struggle.

198 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

It was, perhaps, a vain hope, for nationalism can only
go far in a socialistic or proletarian direction by ceasing to
be nationalism. Yet I felt that, bourgeois as the outlook of the
National Congress was, it did represent the only effective revolu-
tionary force in the country. As such, Labour ought to help it
and co-operate with it and influence it, keeping, however, its own
identity and ideology distinct and intact. And I hoped that the
course of events and the participation in direct action would
inevitably drive the Congress to a more radical ideology and to
face social and economic issues. The development of the Con-
gress during recent years had been in the direction of the peasant
and the village. If this development continued, it might in
course of time become a vast peasant organisation, or, at
any rate, an organisation in which the peasant element
predominated. Already in many of our U.P. District
Congress Committees the peasantry were strongly represented,
though the middle-class intelligentsia held the leadership in
their hands.

There was thus a possibility of the eternal conflict between
the village and the city influencing the relations of the National
Congress with the T.U.C. The contingency was remote, as the
present National Congress is run by middle-class people and is
controlled by the city, and, so long as the question of national
freedom is not solved, its nationalism will dominate the field
and be the most powerful sentiment in the country. Still it
seemed to me obviously desirable to bring the Congress nearer
to organised labour, and in the U.P. we even invited delegates
to our Provincial Congress Committee from the provincial
branch of the T.U.C. Many Congressmen also took prominent
part in Labour activities.

The advanced sections of Labour, however, fought shy of the
National Congress. They mistrusted its leaders, and considered
its ideology bourgeois and reactionary, which indeed it was, from
the Labour point of view. The Congress was, as its very name
implied, a nationalist organisation.

Throughout 1909 Trade Unions in India were agitated over a
new issue — the appointment of a Royal Commission on Labour
in India, known as the Whitley Commission. The Left Wing was
in favour of a boycott of the Commission, the Right Wing in
favour of co-operation, and the personal factor came in, as some
of the Right Wing leaders were offered membership of the Com-
mission. In this matter, as in many others, my sympathies were
with the Left, especially as this was also the policy of the
National Congress. It seemed absurd to co-operate with official

THUNDER IN THB AIR 199

Commissions when we were carrying chi, or going to carry on, a
direct action struggle.

At the NagpurT.U. Congress, this question of the boycott of
the Whitley Commission became a major issue, and on this, as
well as on several other matters in dispute, the Left Wing
triumphed. I played a very undistinguished rfile at this Con
gress. Being a newcomer in the Labour field and still feeling
my way, I was a little hesitant. Generally, I expressed my views
in favour of the more advanced groups, but I avoided acting
with any group, and played the part more of an impartial
speaker than a directing president. I was thus an almost passive
spectator of the breaking-up of the T.U.C. and the formation of
a new moderate organisation. Personally, 1 felt that the Right
groups were not justified in breaking away, and yet some of the
leaders of the Left had forced the pace and given them every
pretext to depart. Between the quarrels of the Right apd Left, a
large Centre group felt a little helpless. Perhaps given'a right
lead, it could have curbed the two and avoided the break-up of
the T.U.C., and, even if the break came, it would not have had
the unfortunate consequences which resulted.

As it was, the Trade Union Movement in India suffered a
tremendous blow from which it has not yet recovered. The
Government had already started its campaign against the
advanced wings of the Labour movement, and the Meerut case
was among the first fruits thereof. This campaign continued.
The employers also thought the moment opportune to push their
advantage home. The world depression had already begun in
that winter of 1929-30, and buffeted by this, and attacked on
every side, and with their own trade union organisations at
their lowest ebb, the Indian working class had a very hard time,
and were the helpless witnesses of a progressive deterioration in
their own condition. The Trade Union Congress experienced
another split in the course of the next year or two, when a Com-
munist faction broke off. Thus there were in theory three federa-
tions of Trade Unions in India — a Moderate group, the main
T.U.C., and a Communist group. In practice they were all weak
and ineffective, and their mutual quarrels disgusted the rank-
and-file workers. I was out of all this from 1930 onwards, as I
was mostly in prison. During my short periods outside I leamt
that attempts at unity were being made. They were not success-
ful. 1 The Moderate group of unions gained strength by the

1 Subsequent efforts to bring about Trade Union unity have been
more successful, and the various groups are now working in some
co-operation with each other.

300 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

adhesion of railway workers to them. They had one advantage
over the other groups, as Government recognised them and
accepted their recommendations for the Labour Conferences at
Geneva. The lure of a visit to Geneva pulled some Labour
leaders to them, and they brought their unions with them.

XXVIII

INDEPENDENCE AND AFTER

The Lahore Congress remains fresh in my memory— a vivid
patch. That is natural, for I played a leading rdle there, and, for
a moment, occupied the centre of the stage; and I like to think
sometimes of the emotions that filled me during those crowded
days. I can never forget the magnificent welcome that the people
of Lahore gave me, tremendous in its volume and its intensity.
I knew well that this overflowing enthusiasm was for a symbol
and an idea, not for me personally; yet it was no little thing for
a person to become that symbol, even for a while, in the eyes
and hearts of great numbers of people, and I felt exhila-
rated and lifted out of myself. But my personal reactions
were of little account, and there were big issues at stake. The
whole atmosphere was electric and surcharged with the gravity
of the occasion. Our decisions were not going to be mere criti-
cisms or protests or expressions of opinion, but a call to action
which was bound to convulse the country and affect the lives of
millions.

What the distant future held for us and our country, none
dare prophesy; the immediate future was clear enough, and
it held the promise of strife and suffering for us and those who
were dear to us. This thought sobered our enthusiasms and
made us very conscious of our responsibility. Every vote that
we gave became a message of farewell to ease and comfort and
domestic happiness and the intercourse of friends, and an
invitation to lonely days and nights and physical and mental
distress.

The main resolution on Independence, and the action to be
taken in furtherance of our freedom struggle, was passed almost
unanimously, barely a score of persons, out of rtiany thousands,
voting against it. The real voting took place on a side issue,
which came in the form of an amendment. This amendment
was defeated and the voting figures were announced and the
main resolution declared carried, by a curious coincidence, at the
stroke of midnight on December 31st, as the old year yielded
place to the new. Thus even as the year of grace, fixed by the
Calcutta Congress, expired, the new decision was taken and pre-
parations for the struggle launched. The wheels had been set
moving, but we were still in darkness as to how and when we

SOI

302 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

were to begin. The All-India Congress Committee had been
authorised to plan and carry out our campaign, but all knew
that the real decision lay with Gandhiji.

The Lahore Congress was attended by large numbers of people
from the Frontier Province near by. Individual delegates from
this province had always come to the Congress sessions, and for
some years past Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan had been attending
and taking part in our deliberations. In Lahore for the first time
a large batch of earnest young men from the Frontier came into
touch with all-India political currents. Their fresh minds were
impressed, and they returned with a sense of unity with the rest
of India in the struggle for freedom and full of enthusiasm for
it. They were simple but effective men of action, less given to
talk and quibbling than the people of any other province in
India, and they started organising their people and spreading
the new ideas. They met with success, and the men and women
of the Frontier, the latest to join in India’s struggle, played an
outstanding and remarkable part from 1930 onwards.

Immediately after the Lahore Congress, and in obedience to
its mandate, my father called upon the Congress members of
the Legislative Assembly and the Provincial Councils to resign
from their seats. Nearly all of them came out in a body, a very
few refusing to do so, although this involved a breach of their
election promises.

Still we were vague about the future. In spite of the enthu-
siasm shown at the Congress session, no one knew what the
response of the country would be to a programme of action.
We had burned our boats and could not go back, but the country
ahead of us was an almost strange and uncharted land. To give
a start to our campaign, and partly also to judge the temper
of the country, January 26th was fixed as Independence Day,
when a pledge of independence was to be taken all over the
country.

And so, full of doubt about our programme, but pushed on
by enthusiasm and the desire to do something effective, we
waited for the march of events. I was in Allahabad during the
early part of January; my father was mostly away. It was the
time of the great annual fair, the Magh Mela; probably it was
the special Kumbh year, and hundreds of thousands of men
and women were continually streaming into Allahabad, or holy
Prayag, as it was to the pilgrims. They were all kinds of people,
chiefly peasants, $lso labourers, shopkeepers, artisans, merchants,
business men, professional people — indeed, it was a cross-section
of Hindu India. As I watched these great crowds and the un-

INDEPENDENCE AND AFTER 003

ending streams of people going to and from the river, I won-
dered how they would react to the call for civil resistance and
peaceful direct action. How many of them knew or cared for
the Lahore decisions? How amazingly powerful was that faith
which had for thousands of years brought them and their for*
bears from every comer of India to bathe in the holy Gangal
Could they not divert some of this tremendous energy to political
and economic action to better their own lot? Or were their
minds too full of the trappings and traditions of their religion
to leave room for other thought? I knew, of course, that these
other thoughts were already there, stirring the placid stillness of
ages. It was the movement of these vague ideas and desires
among the masses that had caused the upheavals of the past
dozen years and had changed the face of India. There was no
doubt about their existence and of the dynamic energy behind
them. But still doubt came and questions arose to which there
was no immediate answer. How far had these ideas spread?
What strength lay behind them, what capacity for organised
action, for long endurance?

Our house attracted crowds of pilgrims. It lay conveniently
situated near one of the places of pilgrimage, Bharadwaj, where
in olden times there was a primitive university, and on the days
of the mela an endless stream of visitors would come to us from
dawn to dusk. Curiosity, I suppose, brought most of them, and
the desire to see well-known persons they had heard of, especi-
ally my father. But a large proportion of those who came were
politically inclined, and asked questions about the Congress and
what it had decided and what was going to happen; and they
were full of their own economic troubles and wanted to know
what they should do about them. Our political slogans they
knew well, and all day the house resounded with them. I started
the day by saying a few words to each group of twenty or fifty
or a hundred as it came, one after the other, but soon this proved
an impossible undertaking, and I silently saluted them when
they came. There was a limit to this, too, and then I tried to
hide myself. It was all in vain. The slogans became louder and
louder, the verandas of the house were foil of these visitors of
ours, each door and window had a collection of prying eyes. It
was impossible to work or talk or feed or, indeed, do anything.
This was not only embarrassing, it was annoying and irritating.
Yet there they were, these people looking up with shining eyes
foil of affection, with generations of poverty and suffering
behind them, and still pouring out their gratitude and love and
asking for little in return, except fellow-feeling and sympathy.

304 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

It was impossible not to feel humbled and awed by this abun-
dance of affection and devotion.

A dear friend of ours was staying with us at the time, and
often it became impossible to carry on any conversation with
her, for every five minutes or less I had to go out to say a word
or two to a crowd that had assembled, and in between we listened
to the slogans and shouting outside. She was amused at my
plight and a little impressed, I think, by what she considered my
great popularity with the masses. (As a matter of fact the prin-
cipal attraction was my father, but, as he was away, I had to
face the music.) She turned to me suddenly and asked me how
I liked this hero-worship. Did I not feel proud of it? I hesitated
a little before answering, and this led her to think that she had,
perhaps, embarrassed me by too personal a question. She apolo-
gised. She had not embarrassed me in the least, but I found the
question difficult to answer. My mind wandered away, and I
began to analyse my own feelings and reactions. They were very
mixed.

It was true that I had achieved, almost accidentally as it
were, an unusual degree of popularity with the masses; I was
appreciated by the intelligentsia; and to young men and women
I was a bit of a hero, and a halo of romance seemed to surround
me in their eyes. Songs had been written about me, and the
most impossible and ridiculous legends had grown up. Even my
opponents had often put in a good word for me and patronis-
ingly admitted that I was not lacking in competence or in good
faith.

Only a saint, perhaps, or an inhuman monster could survive
all this, unscathed and unaffected, and I can place myself in
neither of these categories. It went to my head, intoxicated me a
little, and gave me confidence and strength. I became (I imagine
so, for it is a difficult task to look at oneself from outside) just a
little bit autocratic in my ways, just a shade dictatorial. And
yet I do not think that my conceit increased markedly. I had a
fair measure of my abilities, I thought, and I was by no means
humble about them. But I knew well enough that there was
nothing at all remarkable about them, and I was very conscious
of my failings. A habit of introspection probably helped me to
retain my balance and view many happenings connected with
myself in a detached manner. Experience of public life showed
me that popularity was often the handmaiden of undesirable
persons; it was certainly not an invariable sign of virtue or
intelligence. Was I popular then because of my failings or my
accomplishments? Why indeed was I popular?

INDEPENDENCE AND AFTER 70 $

Not because of intellectual attainments, for they were not
extraordinary, and, in any event, they do not make for popu-
larity. Not Decause of so-called sacrifices, for it is patent that
hundreds and thousands in our own day in India have suffered
infinitely more, even to the point of the last sacrifice. My repu-
tation as a hero is entirely a bogus one, and I do not feel at all
heroic, and generally the neroic attitude or the dramatic pose in
life strikes me as silly. As for romance, I should say that I am
the least romantic of individuals. It is true that I have some
physical and mental courage, but the background of that is
probably pride : personal, group, and national, and a reluctance
to be coerced into anything.

I had no satisfactory answer to my question. Then I proceeded
along a different line of inquiry. I found that one of the most
persistent legends about my fatner and myself was to the effect
that we used to send our linen weekly from India to a Paris
laundry. We have repeatedly contradicted this, but the legend
persists. Anything more fantastic and absurd it is difficult for
me to imagine, and if anyone is foolish enough to indulge in
this wasteful snobbery, I should have thought he would get a
special mention for being a prize fool.

Another equally persistent legend, often repeated in spite of
denial, is that I was at school with the Prince of Wales. The
story goes on to say that when the Prince came to India in 1921
he asked for me; I was then in gaol. As a matter of fact, I was
not only not at school with him, but I have never had the advan-
tage of meeting him or speaking to him.

I do not mean to imply that my reputation or popularity, such
as they are, depend on these or similar legends. They may have
a more secure foundation, but there is no doubt that the super-
structure has a thick covering of snobbery, as is evidenced by
these stories. At any rate, there is the idea of mixing in high
society and living a life of luxury and then renouncing it all,
and renunciation has always appealed to the Indian mind. As a
basis for a reputation this does not at all appeafl to me. I prefer
the active virtues to the passive ones, and renunciation and sacri-
fice for their own sakes have little appeal for me. I do value
them from another point of view— that of mental and spiritual
training — just as a simple and regular life is necessary for the
athlete to keep in good physical condition. And the capacity for
endurance and perseverance in spite of hard knocks is essential
for those who wish to dabble in great undertakings. But I have
no liking or attraction for the ascetic view of life, the negation
of life, the terrified abstention from its joys and sensations. I

a 06 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

have not consciously renounced anything that I really valued;
but then values change.

The question that my friend had asked me still remained un-
answered: did I not feel proud of this hero-worship of the
crowd? I disliked it and wanted to run away from it, and yet I
had got used to it, and when it was wholly absent, I rather missed
it. Neither way brought satisfaction, but, on the whole, the
crowd had filled some inner need of mine. The notion that I
could influence them and move them to action gave me a sense
of authority over their minds and hearts; and this satisfied, to
some extent, my will to power. On their part, they exercised a
subtle tyranny over me, for their confidence and affection moved
inner depths within me and evoked emotional responses.
Individualist as I was, sometimes the barriers of individuality
seemed to melt away, and I felt that it would be better to be
accursed with these unhappy people than to be saved alone. But
the barriers were too solid to disappear, and I peeped over them
with wondering eyes at this phenomenon which I failed to under-
stand.

Conceit, like fat on the human body, grows imperceptibly,
layer upon layer, and the person whom it affects is unconscious
of the daily accretion. Fortunately the hard knocks of a mad
world tone it down or even squash it completely, and there has
been no lack of these hard knocks for us in India during recent
years. The school of life has been a difficult one for us, and
suffering is a hard taskmaster.

I have been fortunate in another respect also — the possession
of family members and friends and comrades, who have helped
me to retain a proper perspective and not to lose my mental
equilibrium. Public functions, addresses by municipalities and
local boards and other public bodies, processions and the like,
used to be a great strain on my nerves and my sense of humour
and reality. The most extravagant and pompous language would
be used, and everybody would look so solemn and pious that I
fek an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, or to stick out
my tongue, or stand on my head, just for the pleasure of shock-
ing and watching the reactions on the faces at that august
assembly! Fortunately for my reputation and for the sober res-
pectability of public life in India, I have suppressed this mad
desire and usually behaved with due propriety. But not always.
Sometimes there nas been an exhibition on my part in a crowded
meeting, or more often in processions, which I find extra-
ordinarily trying. I have suddenly left a procession, arranged in
our honour, and disappeared in the crowd, leaving my wife or

INDEPENDENCE AND AFTER 007

some other person to carry on, perched up in a car or carriage,
with that procession.

This continuous effort to suppress one’s feelings and behave
in public is a bit of a strain, and the usual result is that one puts
on a glum and solid look on public occasions. Perhaps because
of this I was once described in an article in a Hindu magazine
as resembling a Hindu widow I I must say that, mucn as I
admire Hindu widows of the old type, this gave me a shock.
The author evidently meant to praise me for some qualities he
thought I possessed — a spirit of gentle resignation and renuncia-
tion and a smileless devotion to work. I had hoped that I pos-
sessed — and, indeed, I wish that Hindu widows would possess —
more active and aggressive qualities and the capacity for humour
and laughter. Gandhiji once told an interviewer that if he had
not had the gift of humour he might have committed suicide,
or something to this effect. I would not presume to go so far,
but life certainly would have been almost intolerable for me but
for the humour and light touches that some people gave to it.

My very popularity and the brave addresses that came my way,
full (as is, indeed, the custom of all such addresses in India) of
choice and flowery language and extravagant conceits, became
subjects for raillery in the circle of my family and intimate
friends. The high-sounding and pompous words and titles that
were often used for all those prominent in the national move-
ment, were picked out by my wife and sisters and others and
bandied about irreverently. I was addressed as Bharat Bhushan —
‘Jewel of India’ Tyagamurti — 'O Embodiment of Sacrifice';
and this light-hearted treatment soothed me, and the tension
of those solemn public gatherings, where I had to remain on my
best behaviour, gradually relaxed. Even my little daughter
joined in the game. Only my mother insisted on taking me
seriously, and she never wholly approved of any sarcasm or
raillery at the expense of her darling boy. Father was amused;
he had a way of quietly expressing his deep understanding and
sympathy.

But all these shouting crowds, and dull and wearying public
functions, and interminable arguments, and the dust and tumble
of politics touched me on the surface only, though sometimes
the touch was sharp and pointed. My real conflict lay within
me, a conflict of ideas, desires and loyalties, of subconscious
depths struggling with outer circumstances, of an inner hunger
unsatisfied. I became a battleground, where various forces
struggled for mastery. I sought an escape from this; I tried to
find harmony and equilibrium, and in this attempt I rushed

408 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

into action. That gave me some peace; outer conflict relieved
the strain of the inner struggle.

Why am I writing all this sitting here in prison? The quest
is still the same, in prison or outside, and I write down my past
feelings and experiences in the hope that this may bring me
some peace and psychic satisfaction.

XXIX

CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE BEGINS

Independence Day came, January 26th, 1930, and it revealed to
us, as in a flash, the earnest and enthusiastic mood of the
country. There was something vastly impressive about the great
gatherings everywhere, peacefully and solemnly taking the
pledge of independence 1 without any speeches or exhortation.
This celebration gave the necessary impetus to Gandhiji, and he
felt, with his sure touch on the pulse of the people, that the
time was ripe for action. Events followed then in quick suc-
cession, like a drama working up to its climax.

As Civil Disobedience approached and electrified the atmo-
sphere, our thoughts went back to the movement of 1921-22 and
the manner of its sudden suspension after Chauri Chaura. The
country was more disciplined now, and there was a clearer
appreciation of the nature of the struggle. The technique was
understood to some extent, but more important still from
Gandhiji's point of view, it was fully realised by every one that
he was terribly in earnest about non-violence. There could be
no doubt about that now as there probably was in the minds of
some people ten years before. Despite all this, how could we
possibly be certain that an outbreak of violence might not occur
in some locality either spontaneously or as the result of an in-
trigue? And if such an incident occurred, what would be its
effect on our civil disobedience movement? Would it be suddenly
wound up as before? That prospect was most disconcerting.

Gandhiji probably thought over this question also in his own
way, though the problem that seemed to trouble him, as far as
I could gather from scraps of conversation, was put differently.

The non-violent method of action to bring about a change for
the better was to him the only right methcyd and, if rightly
pursued, an infallible method. Must it be said that this method
required a specially favourable atmosphere for its functioning
and success, and that it should not be tried if outward conditions
were not suited to it? That led to the conclusion that the non-
violent method was not meant for all contingencies, and was
thus neither a universal nor an infallible method. This con-
clusion was intolerable for Gandhiji, for he firmly believed that
it was a universal and infallible method. Therefore, necessarily,

1 This pledge is given in Appendix A. (p.612)

*og

H

310 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

it must function even though the external conditions were un-
favourable, and even in the midst of strife and violence. The
way of its functioning might be varied to suit varying circum-
stances, but to stop it would be a confession of failure of the
method itself.

Perhaps his mind worked in some such way, but I cannot be
sure of his thoughts. He did give us the impression that there
was a slightly different orientation to his thinking, and that Civil
Disobedience, when it came, need not be stopped because of a
sporadic act of violence. If, however, the violence became in
any way part of the movement itself, then it ceased to be a
peaceful civil disobedience movement, and its activities had to
be curtailed or varied. This assurance went a long way in satis-
fying many of us. The great question that hung in the air
now was — how? How were we to begin? What form of civil
disobedience should we take up that would be effective, suited
to the circumstances, and popular with the masses? And then
the Mahatma gave the hint.

Salt suddenly became a mysterious word, a word of power.
The Salt Tax was to be attacked, the salt laws were to be broken.
We were bewildered and could not quite fit in a national
struggle with common salt. Another surprising development was
Gandhiji’s announcement of his 1 Eleven Points \ What was the
point of making a list of some political and social reforms — good
in themselves, no doubt — when we were talking in terms of
independence? Did Gandhi ji mean the same thing when he used
this term as we did, or did we speak a different language? We
had no time to argue for events were on the move. They were
moving politically before our eyes from day to day in India; and,
hardly realised by us at the time, they were moving fast in the
world and holding it in the grip of a terrible depression. Prices
were falling, and the city dwellers welcomed this as a sign of
the plenty to come, but tne farmer and the tenant saw the pros-
pect with alarm.

Then came Gandhiji’s correspondence with the Viceroy and
the beginning of the Dandi Salt March from the Ashram at
Sabarmati. As people followed the fortunes of this marching
column of pilgrims from day to day, the temperature of the
country went up. A meeting of the All-India Congress Com-
mittee was held at Ahmedabad to make final arrangements for
the struggle that was now almost upon us. The Leader in the
struggle was not present, for he was already tramping with his
pilgrim band to the sea, and he refused to return. The A.I.C.C.
planned what should be done in case of arrests, and large powers

CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE BEGINS

211

were given to the President to act on behalf of the Committee,
in case it could not meet, to nominate members of the Working
Committee in place of those arrested, and to nominate a suc-
cessor for himself with the same powers. Similar powers were
given by Provincial and local Congress Committees to their
presidents.

Thus was inaugurated a regime when so-called ‘dictators'
flourished and controlled the struggle on behalf of the Congress.
Secretaries of State for India and Viceroys and Governors have
held up their hands in horror and proclaimed how vicious and
degraded was the Congress because it believed in dictatorships;
they, of course, being convinced adherents of democracy.
Occasionally the Moderate Press in India has also preached to
us the virtues of democracy. We listened to all this in silence
(because we were in prison) and in amazement. Brazen-faced
hypocrisy could hardly go further. Here was India being
governed forcibly under an absolute dictatorship with Ordinance
laws and suppression of every kind of civil liberty, and yet our
rulers talked unctuously of democracy. Even normally, where
was the shadow of democracy in India? It was no doubt natural
for the British Government to defend its power and vested in-
terests in India and to suppress those who sought to challenge
its authority. But its assertion that all this was the democratic
method was worthy of record for future generations to admire
and ponder over.

The Congress had to face a situation when it would be impos-
sible for it to function normally; when it would be declared an
unlawful organisation, and its committees could not meet for
consultation or any actton, except secretly. Secrecy was not
encouraged by us, as we wanted to keep our struggle a perfectly
open one, and thus to keep up our tone and influence the masses.
But even secret work did not take us far. All our leading men
and women at the centre, as well as in the provinces and in local
areas, were bound to be arrested. Who was then to carry on?
The only course open to us was, after the fashion of an army
in action, to make arrangements for new commanders to be
appointed as old ones were disabled. We could not sit down in
the field of battle and hold committee meetings. Indeed, we did
so sometimes, but the object of this, and the inevitable result,
was to have the whole committee arrested en bloc. We did not
even have the advantage of a general staff sitting safely behind
the fines, or a civilian cabinet in still greater safety elsewhere.
Our general staffs and cabinets had to keep, by the very nature of
our struggle, in the most advanced and exposed positions, and

212

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

they were arrested and removed in the early stages. And what
was the power we conferred on our 4 dictators ’? It was an honour
for them to be put forward as symbols of the national determina-
tion to carry on the struggle; but the actual authority they had
was largely confined to 4 dictating ’ themselves to prison. They
could only function at all when the committee they represented
could not meet on account of force majeure ; and wherever and
whenever that committee could meet, the "dictator* lost his
individual authority, such as it was. He or she could not tackle
any basic problems or principles; only minor and superficial
phases of the movement could be affected by the 4 dictator \
Congress 4 dictatorships * were really stepping-stones to prison;
and from day to day this process went on, new persons taking
the place of those who were disabled.

And so, having made our final preparations, we bade good-bye
to our comrades of the All-India Congress Committee at
Ahmedabad, for none knew when or how we would meet again,
or whether we would meet at all. We hastened back to our posts
to give the finishing touches to our local arrangements, in
accordance with the new directions of the A.I.C.C., and, as
Sarojini Naidu said, to pack up our toothbrushes for the journey
to prison.

On our way back, father and I went to see Gandhiji. He was
at Jambusar with his pilgrim band and we spent a few hours
with him there, and then saw him stride away with his party
to the next stage in the journey to the salt sea. That was my
last glimpse of nim then as I saw him, staff in hand, marching
along at the head of his followers, with firm step and a peaceful
but undaunted look. It was a moving sight.

At Jambusar my father had decided, in consultation with
Gandhiji, to make a gift of his old house in Allahabad to the
nation and to rename this Swaraj Bhawan. On his return to
Allahabad he made the announcement, and actually handed
over charge to the Congress people; part of the large house being
converted into a hospital. He was unable to go through the legal
formalities at the time, and, a year and half later, I created a
trust of the property, in accordance with his wishes.

April came, and Gandhiji drew near to the sea, and we waited
for the wprd to begin civil disobedience by an attack on the salt
laws. For months past we had been drilling our volunteers, and
Kamala and Krishna (my wife and sister) had both joined them
and donned male attire for the purpose. The volunteers had, of
course, no arms or even sticks. The object of training them was
to make them more efficient in their work and capable of dealing

CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE BEGINS 213

with large crowds. The 6th of April was the first day of the
National Week, which is celebrated annually in memory of the
happenings in 1919, from Satyagraha Day to Jallianwala Bagh.
On that day Gandhiji began the breach of the salt laws at Dandi
beach, and three or four days later permission was given to all
Congress organisations to do likewise and begin Civil Dis-
obedience in their own areas.

It seemed as though a spring had been suddenly released; and
all over the country, in town and village, salt manufacture was
the topic of the day, and many curious expedients were adopted
to produce salt. We knew precious little about it, and so we read
it up where we could, and issued leaflets giving directions, and
collected pots and pans and ultimately succeeded in producing
some unwholesome stuff, which we waved about in triumph,
and often auctioned for fancy prices. It was really immaterial
whether the stuff was good or bad; the main thing was to commit
a breach of the obnoxious Salt Law* and we were successful
in that, even though the quality of our salt was poor. As we saw
the abounding enthusiasm of the people and the way salt-
making was spreading like a prairie fire, we felt a little abashed
and ashamed for having questioned the efficacy of this method
when it was first proposed by Gandhiji. And we marvelled at
the amazing knack of the man to impress the multitude and
make it act in an organised way.

I was arrested on the 14th of April as I was entraining for
Raipur in the Central Provinces, where I was going to attend
a conference. That very day I was tried in prison and sentenced
to six months 1 imprisonment under the Salt Act. In anticipation
of arrest I had nominated (under the new powers given to me
by the A.I.C.) Gandhiji to act as Congress President in my
absence, but, fearing his refusal, my second nomination was for
father. As I expected, Gandhiji would not agree, and so father
became the acting-President of the Congress. He was in poor
health, nevertheless he threw himself into the campaign with
great energy; and, during those early mbnths, his strong
guidance and enforcement of discipline was of tremendous
benefit to the movement. The movement benefited greatly, but
it was at the cost of such health and physical fitness as had
remained in him.

Those were days of stirring news — processions and lathi
charges and firing, frequent hartals to celebrate noted arrests,
and special observances, like Peshawar Day, Garhwali Day, etc.
For the time being the boycott of foreign cloth and all British
goods was almost complete. When I heard that my aged mother

314 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and, of course, my sisters used to stand under the hot summer
sun picketing before foreign doth shops, I was greatly moved.
Kamala did so also, but she did something more. She threw
herself into the movement in Allahabad city and district with
an energy and determination which amazed me, who thought
I had known her so well for so many years. She forgot
her ill-health and rushed about the whole day in the sun, and
showed remarkable powers of organisation. I heard of this
vaguely in gaol. Later, when my rather joined me there, I was
to learn from him how much he had himself appreciated
Kamala’s work, and especially her organising capadty. He did
not at all fancy my mother or the girls rushing about in the hot
sun, but, except for an occasional remonstrance, he did not
interfere.

The biggest news of all that came to us in those early days
was of the occurrences in Peshawar on April 23rd, and sub-
sequently all over the Frontier Province. Anywhere in India
such a remarkable exhibition of disriplined and peaceful courage
before machine-gun firing would have stirred the country. In
the Frontier Province it had an additional significance, for the
Pathans, noted for their courage, were not noted for their peace-
ful nature; and these Pathans had set an example which was
unique in India. In the Frontier Province also occurred the
famous incident of the refusal to fire on the civil population by
the Garhwali soldiers. They refused to fire because of a soldier’s
distaste for firing on an unarmed crowd, and because, no doubt,
of sympathy with the crowd. But even sympathy is not usually
enough to induce a soldier to take the grave step of refusing to
obey his officer’s orders. He knows the consequences. The
Garhwalis probably did so (in common with some other regi-
ments elsewhere whose disobedience did not receive publicity!
because of a mistaken notion that the British power was collaps-
ing. Only when such an idea takes possession of the soldier does
he dare to act according to his own sympathies and inclinations.
Probably for a few days or weeks the general commotion and
civil disobedience led some people to think that the last days
of British rule had come, and this influenced part of the Indian
Army. Soon it became obvious that no such thing was going to
happen in the near future, and then there was no more dis-
obedience in the army. Care was also taken not to put them in
compromising positions.

Many strange things happened in those days, but undoubtedly
the most striking was the part of the women in the national
struggle. They came out in large numbers from the seclusion

CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE BECINS 3IJ

of their homes and, though unusued to public activity, threw
themselves into the heart of the struggle. The picketing of
foreign cloth and liquor shops they made their preserve.
Enormous processions consisting of women alone, were taken
out in all the cities; and, generally, the attitude of the women
was more unyielding than that of the men. Often they became
Congress ‘ dictators ’ in provinces and in local areas.

The breach of the Salt Act soon became just one activity, and
civil resistance spread to other fields. This was facilitated by the
promulgation of various ordinances by the Viceroy prohibiting
a number of activities. As these ordinances and prohibitions
grew, the opportunities for breaking them also grew, and civil
resistance took the form of doing the very thing that the ordi-
nance was intended to stop. The initiative definitely remained
with the Congress and the people, and as each ordinance law
failed to control the situation from the point of view of govern-
ment, fresh ordinances were issued by the Viceroy. Many of the
Congress Working Committee members had been arrested, but
it continued to function with new members added on to it,
and each official ordinance was countered by a resolution of the
Working Committee giving directions as to how to meet it.
These directions were carried out with surprising uniformity all
over this country — with one exception, the one relating to the
publication of newspapers.

When an ordinance was issued for the further control of the
Press and the demand of security from newspapers, the Working
Committee called upon the Nationalist Press to refuse to give
any security, and to stop publication instead. This was a hard
pill to swallow for the newspapermen, for just then the public
demand for news was very great. Still the great majority of
newspapers — some Moderate papers excepted — stopped publica-
tion, with the result that all manner of rumours began to spread.
But they could not hold out for long, the temptation was too
great, and the sight of their moderate rival* picking up their
business too irritating. So most of them drifted back to pub-
lication.

Gandhiji had been arrested on May 5th. After his arrest big
raids on the salt pans and depots were organized on the west
coast. There were very painful incidents of police brutality
during these raids. Bombay then occupied the centre of the
picture with its tremendous hartals and processions and lathi
charges. Several emergency hospitals grew up to treat the vic-
tims of these lathi charges. Much that was remarkable happened
in Bombay, and being a great city it had the advantage of pub-

2l6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

licity. Occurrences of equal importance in small towns and the
rural areas received no publicity.

In the latter half of June my father went to Bombay, and
with him went my mother and Kamala. They had a great
reception, and during their stay there occurred some of the
fiercest of the lathi charges. These were, indeed, becoming
frequent occurrences in Bombay. A fortnight or so later an
extraordinary all-night ordeal took place there, when Malaviyaji
and members of the Working Committee, at the head of a huge
crowd, spent the night facing the police, who blocked their way.

On his return from Bombay father was arrested on June 30th,
and Syed Mahmud was arrested with him. They were arrested
as acting-President and Secretary of the Working Committee,
which was declared unlawful. Both of them were sentenced to
six months. My father’s arrest was probably due to his having
issued a statement defining the duties of a soldier or policeman
in the event of an order to fire on civil populations being given.
The statement was strictly a legal affair, and contained the
present British Indian law on this point. Nevertheless, it was
considered a provocative and dangerous document.

The Bombay visit had been a great strain on father, and from
early morning to late at night he was kept busy, and he had to
take the responsibility for every important decision. He had
long been unwell, but now he returned fagged out, and decided,
at the urgent advice of his doctors, to take complete rest
immediately. He arranged to go to Mussoorie and packed up
for it, but the day before he intended leaving for Mussoorie, he
appeared before us in our barrack in Naini Central Prison.

XXX

IN NAINI PRISON

I had gone back to gaol after nearly seven years, and memories
of prison life had somewhat faded. I was in Naini Central
Prison, one of the big prisons of the province, and I was to have
the novel experience of being kept by myself. My enclosure was
apart from the big enclosure containing the gaol population of
between 2200 and 2300. It was a small enclosure, circular in
shape, with a diameter of about one hundred feet, and with a
circular wall about fifteen feet high surrounding it. In the middle
of it was a drab and ugly building containing four cells. I was
given two of these cells, connecting with each other, one to
serve as a bathroom and lavatory. The others remained un-
occupied for some time.

After the exciting and very active life I had been leading
outside, I felt rather lonely and depressed. I was tired out, and
for two or three days I slept a great deal. The hot weather had
already begun, and I was permitted to sleep at night in the open,
outside my cell in the narrow space between the inner building
and the enclosing wall. My bed was heavily chained up, lest I
might take it up and walk away, or, more probably, to avoid
the bed being used as a kind of scaling ladder to climb the wall
of the enclosure. The nights were full of strange noises. The
convict overseers, w'ho guarded the main wall, frequently shouted
to each other in varying keys, sometimes lengthening out their
cries till they sounded like the moaning of a distant wind; the
night-watchmen in the barracks were continually counting away
in a loud voice the prisoners under their charge and shouting out
that all was well; and several times a night some gaol official,
going his rounds, visited our enclosure and shouted an enquiry
to the warder on duty. As my enclosure was s6me distance away
from the others, most of these voices reached me indistinctly,
and I could not make out at first what they were. At times I felt
as if I was on the verge of the forest, and the peasantry were
shouting to keep the wild animals away from their fields; some-
times it seemed the forest itself and the beasts of the night were
keeping up their nocturnal chorus.

Was it my fancy, I wonder, or is it a fact that a circular wall
reminds one more of captivity than a rectangular one? The
absence of corners and angles adds to the sense of oppression.

*17

218 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

In the daytime that wall even encroached on the sky and only
allowed a glimpse of a narrow-bounded portion. With a wistful
eye I looked

“ Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,

And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.”

At night that wall enclosed me all the more, and I felt as if
I was at the bottom of a well. Or else that part of the star-lit sky
that I saw ceased to be real and seemed part of an artificial
planetarium.

My barrack and enclosure were popularly known throughout
the gaol as the Kuttaghar — the Dog House. This was an old
name which had nothing to do with me. The little barrack had
been built originally, apart from all others, for especially danger-
ous criminals who had to be isolated. Latterly it had been used
for political prisoners, detenus, and the like who could thus be
kept apart from the rest of the gaol. In front of the enclosure,
some distance away, was an erection that gave me a shock when
I first had a glimpse of it from my barrack. It looked like a
huge cage, and men went round and round inside it. I found
out later that it was a water-pump worked by human labour,
as many as sixteen persons being employed at a time. I got used
to it as one gets used to everything, but it has always seemed to
me one of the most foolish and barbarous ways of utilising
human labour-power. And whenever I pass it I think of the zoo.

For some days I was not permitted to go outside my enclosure
for exercise or any other purpose. I was later allowed to go out
for half an hour in the early mornings, when it was almost dark,
and to walk or run under the main wall. That early morning
hour had been fixed for me so that I might not come in contact
with, or be seen by, the other prisoners. I liked that outing, and
it refreshed me tremendously. In order to compress as much
open-air exercise as I could in the short time at my disposal, I
took to running, and gradually increased this to over two miles
daily.

I used .to get up very early in the morning, about four, or even
half-past three, when it was quite dark. Partly this was due to
going to bed early, as the light provided was not good for much
reading. I liked to watch the stars, and the position of some
well-known constellation would give me the approximate time.
From where I lay I could just see the Pole Star peeping over
the wall, and as it was always there, I found it extraordinarily

IN NAINI PRISON 319

comforting. Surrounded by a revolving sky, it seemed to be a
symbol of cheerful constancy and perseverence.

For a month I had no companion, but I was not alone, as I
had the warder and the convict overseers and a convict cook and
cleaner in my enclosure. Occasionally other prisoners came there
on some business, most of them being convict overseers — C.O.'s
— serving out long sentences. ‘ Lifers ’ — convicts sentenced for
life — were common. Usually a life-sentence was supposed to ter-
minate after twenty years, or even less, but there were many in
prison then who had served more than twenty years already. I
saw one very remarkable case in Naini. Prisoners carry about,
attached to their clothes at the shoulder, little wooden boards
giving information about their convictions and mentioning the
date when release was due. On the board of one prisoner I read
that his date of release was 1996! He had already, m 1930, served
out several years, and he was then a person of middle age. Prob-
ably he had been given several sentences and they had been
added up one after the other; the total, I think, amounting to
seventy-five years.

For years and years many of these ‘ lifers ’ do not see a child
or woman, or even animals. They lose touch with the out-
side world completely, and have no human contacts left. They
brood and wrap themselves in angry thoughts of fear and re-
venge and hatred; forget the good of the world, the kindness and
joy, and live only wrapped up in the evil, till gradually even
hatred loses its edge and life becomes a soulless thing, a machine-
like routine. Like automatons they pass their days, each exactly
like the other, and have few sensations, except one — fear I From
time to time the prisoner’s body is weighed and measured. But
how is one to weigh the mind and the spirit which wilt and stunt
themselves and wither away in this terrible atmosphere of
oppression? People argue against the death penalty, and their
arguments appeal to me greatly. But when I see the long drawn-
out agony of a life spent in prison, I feel that it is perhaps
better to have that penalty rather than to kill a person slowly
and by degrees. One of the ‘ lifers ’ came up to me once and
asked me: “ What of us lifers? Will Swaraj take us out of this
hell? ’’

Who are these lifers? Many of them come in gang cases,
when large numbers, as many as fifty or a hundred, may be
convicted eti bloc. Some of these are probably guilty, but I doubt
if most of those convicted are really guilty; it is easy to get
people involved in such cases. An approver’s evidence, a little
identification, is all that is needed. Dacoities are increasing now-

220 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

adays and the prison population goes up year by year. If people
starve, what are they to do? Judges and magistrates wax
eloquent about the increase of crime, but are blind to the
obvious economic causes of it.

Then there are the agriculturists who have a little village riot
over some land dispute, lathis fly about, and somebody dies —
result, many people in gaol for life or for a long term. Often all
the menfolk in a family will be imprisoned in this way, leaving
the women to carry on as best they can. Not one of these is
a criminal type. Generally they are fine young men, consider-
ably above the average villager, both physically and mentally.
A little training, some diversion of interest to other subjects
and jobs, and these people would be valuable assets to the
country.

Indian prisons contain, of course, hardened criminals, persons
who are aggressively anti-social and dangerous to the com-
munity. But I have Deen amazed to find large numbers of fine
types in prison, boys and men, whom I would trust unhesi-
tatingly. I do not know what the proportion of real criminals
to non-criminal types is, and probably no one in the prison
department has ever even thought of this distinction. Some
interesting figures are given on this subject by Lewis E. Lawes,
the Warden of Sing Sing Prison in New York. He says of his
prison population, that to his knowledge 50 per cent, are not
criminally inclined at all; that 25 per cent, are the products of
circumstances and environment; that of the remaining 25 per
cent, only a possible half, that is 12*4 per cent., are aggressively
anti-social. It is a well-known fact that real criminality flourishes
more in the big cities and centres of modern civilisation than
in the undeveloped countries. American gangsterdom is notori-
ous, and Sing Sing has a special reputation as a prison where
some of the worst criminals go. And yet, according to its
warden, only i2j4 per cent, of its prisoners are really bad. I
think it may very safely be said that this proportion is far
less in an Indian prison. A more sensible economic policy,
more employment, more education would soon empty out our
prisons. But of course to make that successful, a radical plan,
affecting the whole of our social fabric, is essential. The only
other real alternative is what the British Government is doing :
increasing its police forces and enlarging its prisons in India.
The number of persons sent to gaol in India is appalling. In
a recent report issued by the Secretary of the All-India
Prisoners’ Aid Society, it is stated that in the Bombay Presi-
dency alone 128,000 persons were sent to gaol in 1933, and the

IN NAINI PRISON 221

figure for Bengal for the same year was 1 24,00a 1 I do not know
the figures for all the provinces, but if the total for two
provinces exceeds a quarter of a million, it is quite possible that
the All-India total approaches the million mark. This figure
does not, of course, represent the permanent gaol population,
for a large number of persons get short sentences. The per-
manent population will be very much less, but still it must be
enormous. Some of the major provinces in India are said to
have the biggest prison administrations in the world. The U.P.
is among those supposed to have this doubtful honour, and
very probably it is, or was, one of the most backward and
reactionary administrations. Not the least effort is made to
consider the prisoner as an individual, a human being, and to
improve or look after his mind. The one thing the U.P.
administration excels in is keeping its prisoners. There are
remarkably few attempts to escape, and I doubt if one in ten
thousand succeeds in escaping.

One of the most saddening features of the prisons is the
large number of boys, from fifteen upwards, who are to be
found in them. Most of them are bright-looking lads who, if
given the chance, might easily make good. Lately some
beginnings have been made to teach them the elements of
reading and writing but, as usual, these are absurdly inade-
quate and inefficient. There are very few opportunities for
games or recreation, no newspapers of any kind are permitted
nor are books encouraged. For twelve hours or more all
prisoners are kept locked up in their barracks or cells with
nothing whatever to do in the long evenings.

Interviews are only permitted once in three months, and so
are letters — a monstrously long period. Even so, many
prisoners cannot take advantage of them. If they are illiterate,
as most are, they have to rely on some gaol official to write
on their behalf ; and the latter, not being keen on adding to his
other work, usually avoids it. Or, if a letter is written, the
address is not properly given and the letter does not reach.
Interviews are still more difficult. Almost invariably they de-
pend on a gratification for some gaol official. Often prisoners
are transferred to different gaols, and their people cannot trace
them. I have met many prisoners who had lost complete touch
with their families for years, and did not know what had
happened. Interviews, when they do take place after three
months or more, are most extraordinary. A number of

1 Statesman , December 11, 1934.

222

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

prisoners and their interviewers are placed together on either
side of a barrier, and they all try to talk simultaneously. There
is a great deal of shouting at each other, and the slight human
touch that might have come from the interview is entirely
absent.

A very small number of prisoners, ordinarily not exceeding
one in a thousand (Europeans excepted), are given some extra
privileges in the shape of better food and more frequent inter-
views and letters. During a big political civil resistance move-
ment, when scores of thousands of political prisoners go to
gaol, this figure of special class prisoners goes up slightly, but
even so it is very low. About 95 per cent, of these political
prisoners, men and women, are treated in the ordinary way
and are not given even these facilities.

Some individuals, sentenced for revolutionary activities for
life or long terms of imprisonment, are often kept in solitary
confinement for long periods. In the U.P., I believe, all such
persons are automatically kept in solitary cellular confinement.
Ordinarily, this solitary confinement is awarded as a special
punishment for a prison offence. But in the case of these per-
sons — usually young boys — they are kept alone although their
behaviour in gaol might be exemplary. Thus an additional
and very terrible punishment is added by the Gaol Department
to the sentence of the court, without any reason therefor. This
seems very extraordinary, and hardly in conformity with any
rule of law. Solitary confinement, even for a short period, is
a most painful affair; for it to be prolonged for years is a
terrible thing. It means the slow and continuous deterioration
of the mind, till it begins to border on insanity; and the
appearance of a look of vacancy, or a frightened animal type
of expression. It is the killing of the spirit by degrees, the slow
vivisection of the soul. Even if a man survives it, he becomes
abnormal and an absolute misfit in the world. And the question
always arises— was this man guilty at all of any act or offence?
Police methods in India have long been suspect; in political
matters they are doubly so.

European or Eurasian prisoners, whatever their crime or
status, are automatically placed in a higher class and get better
food, lighter work and more interviews and letters. A weekly
visit from a clergyman keeps them in touch with outside affairs.
The parson brings them foreign illustrated and humorous
papers, and communicates with their families when necessary.

No one grudges the European convicts these privileges, for
they are few enough, but it is a little painful to see the utter

IN NAINI PRISON

22 $

absence of any human standard in the treatment of others —
men and women. The convict is not thought of as an indi-
vidual human being, and so he or she is seldom treated as such.
One sees in prison the inhuman side of the State apparatus
of administrative repression at its worst. It is a machine which
works away callously and unthinkingly, crushing all that come
in its grip, and the gaol rules have been purposely framed to
keep this machine in evidence. Offered to sensitive men and
women, this soulless regime is a torture and an anguish of the
mind. I have seen long-term convicts sometimes breaking down
at the dreariness of it all, and weeping like little children. And
a word of sympathy and encouragement, so rare in this atmos-
sphere, has suddenly made their faces light up with joy and
gratitude.

And yet among the prisoners themselves there were often
touching instances of charity and good comradeship. A blind
'habitual’ prisoner was once discharged after thirteen years.
After this long period he was going out, wholly unprovided for,
into a friendless world. His fellow convicts were eager to help
him, but they could not do much. One gave his shirt deposited
in the gaol office, another some other piece of clothing. A third
had that very morning received a new pair of chappals (leather
sandals) and he had shown them to me with some pride. It was
a great acquisition in prison. But when he saw this blind com-
panion of many years going out bare-footed, he willingly parted
with his new chappals. I thought then that there appeared to
be more charity inside the gaol than outside it.

That year 1930 was full of dramatic situations and inspiring
happenings; what surprised most was the amazing power of
Gandhiji to inspire and enthuse a whole people. There was
something almost hypnotic about it, and we remembered the
words used by Gokhale about him : how he had the power of
making heroes out of clay. Peaceful civil disobedience as a
technique of action for achieving great natiQnal ends seemed
to have justified itself, and a quiet confidence grew in the
country, shared by friend and opponent alike, that we were
marching towards victory. A strange excitement filled those
who were active in the movement, and some of this even crept
inside the gaol. “Swaraj is coming I ” said the ordinary con-
victs; and they Waked impatiently for it, in the selfish hope
that it might do them some good. The warders, coming m
contact with the gossip of the bazaars, also expected that Swaraj
was near; the petty gaol official grew a little more nervous.

We had no daily newspapers in prison, but a Hindi weekly

224 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

brought us some news, and often this news would set our
imagination afire. Daily lathi charges, sometimes firing,
martial law at Sholapur with sentences of ten years for
carrying the national nag. We felt proud of our people, and
especially of our womenfolk, all over the country. I had a
special feeling of satisfaction because of the activities of my
mother, wife and sisters, as well as many girl cousins and
friends; and though I was separated from tnem and was in
prison, we grew nearer to each other, bound by a new sense
of comradeship in a great cause. The family seemed to merge
into a larger group, and yet to retain its old flavour and
intimacy. Kamala surprised me, for her energy and enthusiasm
overcame her physical ill-health and, for some time at least,
she kept well in spite of strenuous activities.

The thought that I was having a relatively easy time in
prison, at a time when others were facing danger and suffering
outside, began to oppress me. I longed to go out, and as I could
not do that, I made my life in prison a hard one, full of work.
I used to spin daily for nearly tnree hours on my own charkha ;
for another two or three hours I did newar weaving, which I
had especially asked for from the gaol authorities. I liked these
activities. They kept me occupied without undue strain or
requiring too much attention, and they soothed the fever of
my mind. I read a great deal, and otherwise busied myself
with cleaning up, washing my clothes, etc. The manual labour
I did was of my own choice as my imprisonment was * simple \

And so, between thought of outside happenings and my
gaol routine, I passed my days in Naini Prison. Watching the
working of an Indian prison, it struck me that it was not unlike
the British government of India. There is great efficiency in
the apparatus of government, which goes to strengthen the
hold of the Government on the country, and little or no care
for the human material of the country. Outwardly the prison
must appear efficiently run, and to some extent this was true.
But no one seemed to think that the main purpose of the
prison must be to improve and help the unhappy individuals
who come to it. Break them ! — that is the idea, so that by the
time they go out, they may not have the least bit of spirit left
in them. And how is the prison controlled, and the convicts
kept in check and punished? Very largely with the help of the
convicts themselves, some of whom are made convict-warders
(C.W's.) or convict-overseers (C.O/s.), and are induced to co-
operate with the authorities because of fear, and in the hope
of rewards and special remissions. There are relatively few

IN NAINI PRISON

22 5

paid non-convict-warders; most of the guarding inside the
prison is done by convict-warders and C.O.’s. A widespread
system of spying pervades the prison, convicts being encouraged
to become stool pigeons and to spy on each othdr; and no
combination or joint action is, of course, permitted among the
prisoners. This is easy to understand, for only by keeping
them divided up could they be kept in check.

Outside, in the government of our country, we see much of
this duplicated on a larger, though less obvious, # scale. But
there the C.W/s. or C.O.’s. are known differently. They have
impressive titles, and their liveries of office are more gorgeous.
And behind them, as in prison, stands the armed guard with
weapons ever ready to enforce conformity.

How important and essential is a prison to the modem State I
The prisoner at least begins to think so, and the numerous
administrative and other functions of the government appear
almost superficial before the basic functions of the prison, the
police, the army. In prison one begins to appreciate the
Marxian theory, that the State is really the coercive apparatus
meant to enforce the will of a group that controls the govern-
ment.

For a month I was alone in my barrack. Then a companion
came — Narmada Prasad Singh — and his coming was a relief.
Two and a half months later, on the last day of June 1930,
our little enclosure was the scene of unusual excitement. Un-
expectedly, early in the morning, my father and Dr. Syed
Mahmud, were brought there. They had both been arrested
in Anand Bhawan, while they were actually in their beds, that
morning.

XXXI

NEGOTIATIONS AT YERAVDA

My father’s arrest was accompanied by, or immediately preceded
by, the declaration of the Congress Working Committee as an
unlawful body. This led to a new development outside — the
Committee would be arrested tn bloc when it was having a
meeting. Substitute members were added to it, under the
authority given to the Acting-Presidents, and in this way
several women became acting members. Kamala was one of
them.

Father was in very poor health when he came to gaol, and
the conditions in which he was kept there were of extreme
discomfort. This was not intentional on the part of the Govern-
ment, for they were prepared to do what they could to lessen
those discomforts. But they could not do much in Naini Prison.
Four of us were now crowded together in the four tiny cells of
my barrack. It was suggested by the superintendent of the
prison that father might be kept in some other part of the gaol
where he might have a little more room, but we preferred to
be together, so that some of us could attend personally to his
comforts.

The monsoon was just beginning and it was not particularly
easy to keep perfectly dry even inside the cells, for the rain-
water came through the roof occasionally and dripped in
various places. At night it was always a problem where to put
father’s bed, in the little ioft. by 5ft. veranda attached to our
cell, in order to avoid the rain. Sometimes he had fever. The
gaol authorities ultimately decided to build an additional
veranda, a fine broad one, attached to our cell. This veranda
was built and it was a great improvement, but father did not
profit by it much, as he was discharged soon after it was ready.
Those of us who continued to live in that barrack took full
advantage of it later.

Towards the end of July there was a great deal of talk about
Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and Mr. M. R. Jayakar, endeavouring
to bring about peace between the Congress and the Govern-
ment. We read about it in a daily newspaper, which was sup-
plied as a special favour to father. We read in this paper the
correspondence that had passed between the Viceroy, Lord
Irwin, and Messrs. Sapru and Jayakar, and then we learnt that

NEGOTIATIONS AT YERAVDA 227

the so-called * peacemakers 9 had visited Gandhiji. We did not
know at all what had induced them to take this initiative, or
what they were driving at. Later we were told by them that
they had been encouraged to proceed in the matter because of
a brief statement that father had agreed to in Bombay a few
days before his arrest. The statement had been drafted by Mr.
Slocombe (a correspondent of the London Daily Herald then
in India) after a conversation with my father, and had been
approved by the latter. This statement 1 considered the possi-
bility of the Congress withdrawing the civil disobedience cam-
paign, subject to the Government agreeing to a number of
conditions. It was a vague and tentative affair, and it made it
cpiite clear that even those vague conditions could not be con-
sidered till father had a chance of consulting Gandhiji and me.
I came in as the President of the Congress for the year. I
remember father mentioning it to me in Naini, after his arrest,
and adding that he was rather sorry that he had given such a
vague statement in a hurry, as it was possible that it might be
misunderstood. It was indeed misunderstood, as even the most
exact and explicit statements are likely to be, by people whose
way of thinking is entirely different.

Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and Mr. Jayakar suddenly descended
on us in Naini Prison, on July 27th, with a note from Gandhiji.

1 Statement, dated Bombay, June 25, 1930, agreed to by Pandit
Modlal Nehru: “If in certain circumstances the British Govern-
ment and the Government of India, although unable to anticipate
the recommendations that may in perfect freedom be made by the
Round Table Conference or tne attitude which the British Parlia-
ment may reserve for such recommendations, would nevertheless
be willing to give a private assurance that they would support the
demand for full responsible government for India, subject to such
mutual adjustments and terms of transfer as are required by the
special needs and conditions of India and by her long association
with Great Britain and as may be decided by the Round Table
Conference; Pandit Motilal Nehru would undertake to take per-
sonally such an assurance — or the indication "received from a
responsible third party that such an assurance would be forth-
coming— -to Mr. Gandhi and to Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru. If such
an assurance were offered and accepted it would render possible
a general measure of conciliation which would entail the simul-
taneous calling off of the civil disobedience movement, the cessation
of the Government’s present repressive policy and a general
measure of amnesty for political prisoners, and would be followed
by Congress participation in the Round Table Conference on terms
to be mutually agreed upon.”

328 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

On that day and the next we had long interviews with them,
which were very exhausting for father as he was actually
feverish then. We talked and argued in a circle, hardly under-
standing each other’s language or thought, so great was the
difference in political outlook. It was obvious to us that there
was not the faintest chance of any peace between the Congress
and the Government as matters stood. We refused to make any
suggestions without first consulting our colleagues of the Work-
ing Committee, especially Gandhiji. And we wrote something
to this effect to Gandhiji.

Eleven days later, on August 8th, Dr. Sapru came to see us
again with the Viceroy’s reply. The Viceroy had no objection
to our going to Yeravda (the prison in Poona where Gandhiji
was kept) but he and his Council could not allow us to meet
Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad and other
members of the Working Committee who were outside and
were still carrying on an active campaign against the Govern-
ment. Dr. Sapru asked us if we were prepared to go to Yeravda
under these circumstances. We told him that we had and could
have no objection to going to see Gandhiji at any time, but as
we could not meet our other colleagues there was no chance of
our deciding anything finally. That very day’s paper (or perhaps
that of the day before) had given the news of a fierce lathi
charge in Bombay, and the arrest there of Vallabhbhai Patel,
Malaviyaji, Tasadduk Sherwani and others as permanent or
acting members of the Working Committee. We pointed out
to Dr. Sapru that this had not improved matters, and we asked
him to make the position quite clear to the Viceroy. Dr. Sapru,
however, said that there would be no harm in our meeting
Gandhiji as soon as possible. We had previously pointed out
to him that in case we were sent to Yeravda, our colleague.
Dr. Syed Mahr.iud, who was with us at Naini, should also go
there as he was the Congress secretary.

Two days later, on August ioth, the three of us — father,
Mahmud and I— were sent by a special train from Naini to
Poona. Our train did not stop at the big stations; we rushed
past them, stopping at the small wayside ones. Still news of us
travelled ahead, and large crowds gathered both at the stations
where we stopped and at those where we did not stop. We
reached Kirkee, near Poona, late at night on the 1 ith.

We expected to be kept in the same barrack as Gandhiji or, at
least, to see him soon. That was the arrangement made by the
Superintendent of Yeravda prison, but at the last moment he
had to change his arrangements because of some instructions

NEGOTIATIONS AT YERAVDA 229

received through the police officer who had accompanied us
from Naini. Lt.-Col. Martin, the Superintendent, would not
tell us the secret, but a little subtle questioning by father made
it clear to us that the idea was that we should not meet Gand-
hiji (for the first time, at least) except in the presence of Messrs.
Sapru and Jayakar. It was feared that a previous meeting
between us might stiffen our attitude, or make us hold together
more firmly than otherwise. So that night and the whole of
the next day and night, we were kept apart in a separate
barrack, and father was exceedingly irritated at tliis. ft was
tantalising and annoying to be there and not to be allowed to
see Gandhiji, to meet whom he had come all the way from
Naini. On the forenoon of the 13th we were told that Sir Tej
Bahadur Sapru and Mr. Jayakar had arrived, and Mr. Gandhi
had joined them in the prison office, and we were asked to go
there ourselves. Father refused to go, and only agreed after
various explanations and apologies, and on condition that we
should see Gandhiji alone first. At our joint request later,
Vallabhbhai Patel and Jairamdas Doulatram, who had both
been brought to Yeravda, as well as Sarojini Naidu, who was
kept in the Women’s Prison opposite, were allowed to join our
conference. That evening father, Mahmud and I were moved
to Gandhiji’s enclosure and there we remained for the rest of
our stay in Yeravda. Vallabhbhai Patel and Jairamdas Doulat-
ram were also brought there for those few days to enable us to
consult together.

Our conferences in the prison office with Messrs. Sapru and
Jayakar lasted three days, the 13th, 14th and 15th August, and
we exchanged letters giving expression to our views and indi-
cating the ’minimum conditions necessary to enable us to
withdraw civil disobedience and offer co-operation to the
Government. These letters were subsequently published in the
newspapers. 1

The strain of these conferences had told on father, and on
the 1 6th he suddenly got high fever. This delayed our return,
and we started back on the night of the 19th, again by special
train, for Naini. Every effort was made by the Bombay Govern-
ment to provide a comfortable journey for father, and even in
Yeravda, during our brief stay there, his comforts were studied.
I remember an amusing incident on the night of our arrival at
Yeravda. Colonel Martin, the Superintendent, asked father

1 The letter containing these minimum conditions is given in
Appendix B. (p.613).

230 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

what kind of food he would like. Father told him that he took
very simple and light food, and then he enumerated his various
requirements from early morning tea in bed to dinner at night.
(In Naini we used to get food for him daily from home.) The
list father gave in all innocence and simplicity consisted cer-
tainly of light foods, but it was impressive. Very probably at
the nitz or the Savoy it would have been considered simple
and ordinary food, as father himself was convinced that it was.
But in Yeravda Prison it seemed strange and far away and most
inappropriate. Mahmud and I were highly amused to watch
the expression on Colonel Martin’s face as he listened to father’s
numerous and expensive requirements in the way of food. For
a long time he had had in his keeping the greatest and most
famous of India’s leaders, and all that he had required in the
way of food was goat’s milk, dates, and perhaps oranges occa-
sionally. The new type of leader that had come to him was
very different.

During our journey back from Poona to Naini we again
rushed by the big stations and stopped in out-of-the-way places.
But the crowds were larger still, filling the platforms and some-
times even swarming over the railway lines, especially at Harda,
Itarsi and Sohagpur. Accidents were narrowly averted.

Father's condition was rapidly deteriorating. Many doctors
came to examine him, his own doctors as well as doctors sent
on behalf of the Provincial Government. It was obvious that
gaol was the worst place for him and there could be no proper
treatment there. And yet, when a suggestion was made by
some friend in the Press that he should be released because of
his illness, he was irritated, as he thought that people might
think that the suggestion came from him. He even* went to the
length of sending a telegram to Lord Irwin, saying that he did
not want to be released as a special favour. But his condition
was growing worse from day to day; he was losing weight
rapidly, and physically he was a shadow of himself. On the
8th September he was discharged after exactly ten weeks of
prison.

Our barrack became a dull and lifeless place after his depar-
ture. There was so much to be done when he was with us,
little services to add to his comfort, and all of us — Mahmud,
Narmada Prasad and I — filled our days with this joyful service.
I had given up newar weaving, I spun very little, and I did not
have much time for books either. And now that he was gone,
we reverted rather heavily and joylessly to the old routine.
Even the daily newspaper stopped after father’s release. Four

NEGOTIATIONS AT YEKAVDA 331

or five days later my brother-in-law, Ran jit S. Pandit, was
arrested, and he joined us in our barrack.

A month later, on October nth, I was discharged on the
expiry of six months’ sentence. I knew I would have little free-
dom, for the struggle was going on and becoming more intense.
The attempts of tne ‘ peacemakers ’ — Messrs. Sapru and Jaya-
kar — had failed. On the very day I was discharged one or two
more ordinances were announced. I was glad to be out and
eager to do something effective during my short spell of free-
dom.

Kamala was in Allahabad then, busy with her Congress work;
father was under treatment at Mussoorie, and my mother and
sisters were with him. I spent a busy day and a half in Alla-
habad before going up to Mussoorie myself with Kamala. The
great question before us then, was whether a no-tax campaign
in the rural areas should be started or not. The time for rent
collection and payment of revenue was close at hand, and, in
any event, collections were going to be difficult because of the
tremendous fall in the prices of agricultural produce. The
world slump was now very evident in India.

It seemed an ideal opportunity for a no-tax campaign, both as
a part of the general civil disobedience movement ana, indepen-
dently, on its own merits. It was manifestly impossible both for
landlords and tenants to pay up the foil demand out of that
year’s produce. They had to fall back on old reserves, if they
had any, or borrow. The zamindars usually had something to
fall back upon, or could borrow more easily. The average
tenant, always on the verge of destitution and starvation, had
nothing to foil back upon. In any democratic country, or where
the agriculturists were properly organised and had influence, it
would have been quite impossible, under those circumstances,
to make them pay much. In India their influence was negli-
gible, except in so far as the Congress, in some parts of the
country, stood for them; and except, of course, for the ever-
present fear of peasant risings when the situation became in-
tolerable for them. But they had been trained for generations
past to stand almost anything without much murmuring.

In Gujrat, and in some other parts, there were no-tax cam-
paigns in progress at the time, but they were almost wholly
political campaigns, started as parts of the civil disobedience
movement. These were areas where the ryotwari system pre-
vailed and the peasant proprietors dealt directly with the
Government. Their non-payment of revenue affected the State
immediately. The United Provinces were different, for we were

JAWAHAKLAL NEHRU

*3*

a zamindari and taluqadari area, and there were middlemen
between the cultivator and the State. If the tenants stopped
paying their rent the landlord suffered immediately. A class
issue also was thus raised. The Congress, as a whole, was a
purely nationalist body, and included many middling zamin-
dars and a few of the larger ones also. Its leaders were terribly
afraid of doing anything which might raise this class issue or
irritate the zamindar elements. So, right through the first six
months of civil disobedience, they avoided calling for a general
no-tax campaign in the rural areas, although conditions for this
seemed to me to be ripe. I was not afraid of raising the class
issue in this way or any other way, but I recognised that the
Congress, being what it was, could not then patronise class
conflict. It could, however, call upon both parties, zamindars
and tenants, not to pay. The average zamindar would probably
pay up the revenue demanded from him by the Government,
nut that would be his fault.

When I came out of gaol in October, both political and
economic conditions seemed to me to be crying out for a no-tax
campaign in rural areas. The economic difficulties of the agri-
culturists were obvious enough. Politically, our civil disobedi-
ence activities, though still flourishing everywhere, were getting
a bit stale. People went on going to gaol in small numbers, ana
sometimes in large groups, but the sting had gone from the
atmosphere. The cities and the middle classes were a bit tired
of the hartals and processions. Obviously something was needed
to liven things up, a fresh infusion of blood was necessary.
Where could this come from except from the peasantry? — and
the reserve stocks there were enormous. It would again become
a mass movement touching the vital interests of the masses,
and, what was to me very important, would raise social issues.

We discussed these matters, my colleagues and I, during the
brief day and a half I was at Allahabad. At short notice we
convened a meeting there of the executive of our Provincial
Congress Committee, and, after long debate, we decided to
sanction a no-tax campaign, making it permissive for any dis-
trict to take it up. We did not declare it ourselves in any part
of the province, and the Executive Council made it apply to
zamindars as well as tenants, to avoid the class issue if possible.
We knew, of course, that the main response would come from
the peasantry.

Having got this permission to go ahead, our district of Alla-
habad wanted to take the first step. We decided to convene a
representative kisan or peasants’ conference of the district a

NEGOTIATIONS AT YERAVDA

*33

week later, to give the new campaign a push. I felt that I had
done a good first day’s work after release from gaol. I added to
it a big mass meeting in Allahabad city, where I spoke at
length. It was for this speech that I was subsequently convicted
again.

And then, on October 13th, Kamala and I went off to Mus-
soorie to spend three days with father. He was looking just a
little better, and I was happy to think that he had turned the
comer and was getting well. I remember those quiet and de-
lightful three days well; it was good to be back in the family.
Indira, my daughter, was there; and my three little nieces, my
sister’s daughters. I would play with the children and some-
times we would march bravely round the house in a stately
procession, led, flag in hand, by the youngest, aged three or
four, singing Jhanda uncha take hamara , our flag song. And
those three days were the last I was to have with father before
his fatal illness came to snatch him away from me.

Expecting my re-arrest soon, and desiring perhaps to see a
little more of me, father suddenly decided to return to Alla-
habad also. Kamala and I were going down from Mussoorie on
the 17th October to be in time for the Peasant Conference at
Allahabad on the 19th. Father arranged to start with the
others on the 18th, the day after us.

We had a somewhat exciting journey back, Kamala and I.
At Dehra Dun an order under Section 144 Criminal Procedure
Code was served on me almost as I was leaving. At Lucknow
we got off for a few hours, and I learnt that another order under
Section 144 awaited me there, but it was not actually served on
me, as the police officer could not reach me owing to the large
crowds. I was presented with an address by the Municipality,
and then we left by car for Allahabad, stopping at various places
en route to address some peasant gatherings. We reached Alla-
habad on the night of the 18th.

The morning of the 19th brought yet another order under
Section 144 for me! The Government was evidently hot on my
trail and my hours were numbered. I was anxious to attend
the kisan conference before my re-arrest. We called this confer-
ence a private one of delegates only, and so it was, and did
not allow outsiders to come in. It was very representative of
Allahabad District, and, as far as I remember, about 1,600 dele-
gates were present. The conference decided very enthusiastic-
ally to start* the no-tax campaign in the district. There was
some hesitation among our principal workers, some doubt about
the success of such a venture, for the influence and the power

234 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

of the big zamindars to terrorise, backed as this was bv the
Government, was very great, and they wondered if the
peasantry would be able to withstand this. But there was no
hesitation or doubt in the minds of the sixteen hundred and
odd peasants of all degrees who were present, or at any rate it
was not apparent. I was one of the speakers at the conference.
I do not know if thereby I committed a breach of the Section
144 order which had forbidden me from speaking in public.

I then went to the station to receive my father and the rest
of the family. The train was late, and, immediately after their
arrival, I left them to attend a public meeting, a joint affair of
the peasants, who had come from the surrounding villages, and
the townspeople. Kamala and I were returning from this meet-
ing, thoroughly tired out, after 8 p.m. I was looking forward
to a talk with father, and I knew that he was waiting for me,
for we had hardly spoken to each other since his return. On
our way back our car was stopped almost in sight of our
house, and I was arrested and carried off across the river Jumna
to my old quarters in Naini. Kamala went on, alone, to Anand
Bhawan to inform the waiting family of this new development;
and,- at the stroke of nine, I re-entered the great gate of Naini
Prison.

XXXII

THE NO-TAX CAMPAIGN IN THE
UNITED PROVINCES

After eight days’ absence I was back again in Naini, and I
rejoined Syed Mahmud, Narmada Prasad and Ranjit Pandit in
the same old barrack. Some days afterwards I was tried in
prison on a number of charges, all based on various parts of
that one speech I had delivered at Allahabad, the day after my
discharge. As usual with us, I did not defend myself, but made
a brief statement in court. I was sentenced for sedition under
Section 124A to 18 months’ rigorous imprisonment and a fine
of Rs.500; under the Salt Act of 1882 to six months and a fine
of Rs.ioo; and under Ordinance VI of 1930 (I forget what this
Ordinance was about) also to six months and a fine of Rs. 100.
As the last two were concurrent, the total sentence was two years'
rigorous imprisonment and, in addition, five months in default
of fines. This was my fifth term.

My re-arrest and conviction had some effect on the tempo of
the civil disobedience movement for a while; it put on a little
spurt and showed greater energy. This was largely due to
father. When news was brought to him by Kamala of my
arrest, he had a slightly unpleasant shock. Almost immediately
he pulled himself together and banged a table in front of him,
saying that he had made up his mind to be an invalid no
longer. He was going to be well and to do a man’s work, and
not to submit weakly to illness. It was a brave resolve, but un-
happily no strength of will could overcome and crush that
deep-seated disease that was eating into him. Yet for a few days
it worked a marked change, to the surprise of those who saw
him. For some months past, ever since he was at Yeravda, he
had been bringing up blood in his sputum. This stopped quite
suddenly after this resolve of his, and for some days it did not
reappear. He was pleased about it, and he came to see me in
prison and mentioned this fact to me in some triumph. It was
unfortunately a brief respite, for the blood came later in greater
quantities and the disease reasserted itself. During this interval
he worked with his old energy and gave a push to the civil
disobedience movement all over India. He conferred with many
people from various places and issued detailed instructions. He
fixed one day (it was my birthday in November I) for an all-

*35

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

236

India celebration at which the offending passages from my
speech, for which I had been convicted, were read out at public
meetings. On that day there were numerous lathi charges and
forcible dispersals of processions and meetings, and it was esti-
mated that, on that day alone, about five thousand arrests were
made all over the country. It was a unique birthday celebra-
tion.

Ill as he was, this assumption of responsibility and pouring
out of energy was very bad for father, and I begged of him to
take absolute rest. I realised that such rest might not be pos-
sible for him in India, for his mind would always be occupied
with the ups and downs of our struggle and, inevitably, people
would go to him for advice. So I suggested to him to go for a
short sea voyage towards Rangoon, Singapore, and the Dutch
Indies, and he rather liked the idea. It was arranged that a
doctor friend might accompany him on the voyage. With this
object in view he went to Calcutta, but his condition grew
slowly worse and he was unable to go far. In a Calcutta suburb
he remained for seven weeks, and the whole family joined him
there, except Kamala, who remained in Allahabad for most of
the time, doing Congress work.

My re-arrest had probably been hastened because of my
activities in connection with the no-tax campaign. As a matter
of fact few things could have been better for that campaign
than my arrest on that particular day, immediately after the
kisan conference, while the peasant delegates were still in Alla-
habad. Their enthusiasm grew because of it, and they carried
the decisions of the conference to almost every village in the
district. Within a couple of days the whole district knew that
the no-tax campaign had been inaugurated, and everywhere
there was a joyful response to it.

Our chief difficulty in those days was one of communication,
of getting people to know what we were doing or what we
wanted them to do. Newspapers would not publish our news for
fear of being penalised and suppressed by Government; print-
ing presses would not print our leaflets and notices; letters and
telegrams were censored and often stopped. The only reliable
method of communication open to us was to send couriers with
despatches, and even so our messengers were sometimes
arrested. The method was an expensive one and required a
great deal of organisation. It was organised with some success,
and the provincial centres were in constant touch with head-
quarters as well as with their principal district centres. It was
not difficult to spread any information in the cities. Many of

THE NO-TAX CAMPAIGN

237

these issued unauthorised news-sheets, usually cyclostyled, daily
or weekly, and there was always a great demand for them.
For our public notifications, one of me city methods was by
beat of drum; this resulted usually in the arrest of the drum-
mer. This did not matter, as arrests were sought, not avoided.
All these methods suited the cities and were- not easily appli-
cable to the rural areas. Some kind of touch was kept up with
principal village centres by means of messengers -and cyclo-
styled notices, but this was not satisfactory, and it took time for
our instructions to percolate to distant villages.

The kisan conference at Allahabad got over this difficulty.
Delegates had come to it from practically every important vd-
lage in the district and, when they dispersed, they carried the
news of the fresh decisions affecting the peasantry, and of my
arrest in connection with them, to every part of the district.
They became, sixteen hundred of them, effective and enthusi-
astic propagandists for the no-tax campaign. The initial success
of the movement thus became assured, and there was no doubt
that the peasantry as a whole in that area would not pay their
rent to begin with, and not at all unless they were frightened
into doing so. No one, of course, could say what their powers
of endurance would be in face of official or zamindari violence
and terrorism.

Our appeal had been addressed both to zamindars and tenants
not to pay; in theory it was not a class appeal. In practice most
of the zamindars did pay their revenue, even some who sympa-
thised with the national struggle. The pressure on them was
great and they had more to lose. The tenantry, however, stood
firm and did not pay, and our campaign thus became prac-
tically a no-rent campaign. From the Allahabad district it
spread to some other districts of the United Provinces. In
many districts it was not formally adopted or declared, but in
effect tenants withheld their rents or, in many cases, were
wholly unable to pay them owing to the fall in prices. As it
happened, neither Government nor the big zaminaars took any
widespread action to terrorise the recalcitrant tenantry for
several months. They were not sure of their ground, as they
had the political struggle with civil disobedience on the one
side, and the economic slump, resulting in agricultural distress,
on the other. The two merged into each other, and the Govern-
ment was always afraid of an agrarian upheaval. With the
Round Table Conference in session in London, they were not
keen on adding to their troubles in India or on giving a still
more striking demonstration of ' strong ’ government.

238 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

The no-tax movement in the United Provinces had one im-
portant result so far as this province was concerned. It shifted
the centre of gravity of our struggle from the urban to the
rural areas, and it thereby revitalised the movement and put it
on a broader and more enduring basis. Though our city people
became bored and tired, and our middle-class workers were
obviously rather stale, the movement itself in the U.P. was as
strong, or even stronger, than it had been at any other time.
In the other provinces this change-over from urban to rural,
from political to economic issues, did not take place to the same
extent, and consequently they continued to be dominated by
the cities and to suffer increasingly from the weariness of the
middle-class elements. Even the city of Bombay, which had all
along played a prominent part in the movement, began to grow
a little stale. Defiance of authority would go on there and else-
where, and arrests would continue, but all this seemed some-
what artificial. The organic element had gone. This was
natural enough, as it is impossible to keep the masses at a cer-
tain revolutionary pitch for long periods. Ordinarily, this was a
question of days, but civil disobedience had the remarkable
capacity for lengthening this period to many months, and even
then of carrying on at a lower pitch for an indefinite period.

Government repression grew. Local Congress Committees,
Youth Leagues, etc., which had rather surprisingly carried on
so far, were declared illegal and suppressed. The treatment of
political prisoners in gaols became worse. Government was
especially irritated when people returned to gaol for a second
sentence soon after their discharge. This failure to bend in
spite of punishment hurt the morale of the rulers. In Novem-
ber or early December 1930 there were some cases of flogging
of political prisoners in U.P. prisons, apparently for offences
against gaol discipline. News of this reached us in Naini Prison
and upset us — since then we have got used to this, as well as
many worse happenings in India-— for flogging seemed to me to
be an undesirable infliction, even on hardened criminals of the
worst type. For young, sensitive boys and for technical offences
of discipline, it was barbarous. We four in our barrack wrote
to the Government about it, and, not receiving any reply for
about two weeks, we decided to take some definite step to mark
our protest ar the floggings and our sympathy with the victims
of this barbarity. We undertook a complete fast for three days
— 72 hours. This was not much as fasts go, but none of us was
accustomed to fasting, and did not know how we would stand
it. My previous fasts had seldom exceeded 24 hours.

THE NO-TAX CAMPAIGN

We went through that fast without any great difficulty, and I
was glad to find out that it was not such an ordeal as 1 feared.
Very foolishly I carried on mv strenuous exercises— running,
jerks, etc.— right through that last. I do not think that did me
much good, especially as I had been feeling a little unwell pre-
viously. Each one of us lost seven to eight pounds in weight
during those three days. This was in addition to the fifteen to
twenty-six pounds that each had lost in the previous months in
Naini.

Quite apart from our fasting, there was a fair amount of
agitation outside against the flogging, and I believe that the
U.P. Government issued orders to its Gaol Department not to
indulge in it in future. But these orders were not to remain un-
changed for long, and a little more than a year later there was
going to be no lack of flogging in the gaols of the United
Provinces and the other provinces.

Except for these occasional alarms, we lived a quiet life in
prison. The weather was agreeable, for winter in Allahabad is
very pleasant. Ranjit Pandit was an acquisition to our barrack,
for he knew much about gardening, and soon that dismal en-
closure of ours was full of flowers and was gay with colour.
He even arranged in that narrow, restricted space a miniature
golf course!

One of the welcome excitements of our prison existence at
Naini was the passage of aeroplanes over our heads. Allahabad
is one of the ports of call for all the great air lines between
East and West, and the giant planes going to Australia. Java,
and French Indo-China would pass almost directly above our
heads at Naini. Most stately of all were the Dutch liners flying
to and from Batavia. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we saw a
plane in the early winter morning, when it was still dark and

the stars were visible. The great liner was brightly lit up, and
at both ends it had red lights. It was a beautiful sight, as it
sailed by, against the dark background of the early morning
sky.

Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya was also transferred to Naini
from some other gaol. He was kept separately, not in our
barrack, but we met him daily, and perhaps I saw more of him
there than I had done outside. He was a delightful companion,
full of vitality and a youthful interest in things. He even
started, with Ranjit’s help, to learn German, and he showed

r 'te a remarkable memory. He was in Naini when news of
floggings came, and he was greatly upset and wrote to the
ActingSovemor of the Province. Soon afterwards he fell ill.

240 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

He was unable to bear the cold in the conditions that prevailed
in prison. His illness grew serious, and he had to be removed
to the city hospital, and later to be discharged before his term
was over. Happily, he recovered in hospital.

The New Year’s Day, the first of January 1931, brought us
the news of Kamala’s arrest. I was pleased, for she had so
longed to follow many of her comrades to prison. Ordinarily,
if they had been men, both she and my sister and many other
women would have been arrested long ago. But at that time
the Government avoided, as far as possible, arresting women,
and so they had escaped for so long. And now she had her
heart’s desire I How glad she must be, I thought. But I was
apprehensive, for she was always in weak health, and I feared
that prison conditions might cause her much suffering.

As she was arrested, a pressman who was present asked her
for a message, and, on the spur of the moment and almost un-
consciously, she gave a little message that was characteristic of
her : " I am happy beyond measure and proud to follow in the
footsteps of my husband. I hope the people will keep the flag
flying. ’ Probably she would not have said just that if she haa
thought over the matter, for she considers herself a champion
of woman's right against the tyranny of man. But at that
moment the Hindu wife in her came uppermost and even man’s
tyranny was forgotten.

My rather was in Calcutta and was far from well, but news
of Kamala’s arrest and conviction shook him up, and he de-
cided to return to Allahabad. He sent on my sister Krishna
immediately to Allahabad, and followed himself, with the rest
of the family, a few days later. On the 12th of January he
came to see me in Naini. I saw him after nearly two months,
and I had a shock which I could conceal with difficulty. He
seemed to be unaware of the dismay that his appearance had
produced in me, and told me that he was much better than he
had lately been in Calcutta. His face was swollen up, and he
seemed to think that this was due to some temporary cause.

That face of his haunted me. It was so utterly unlike him.
For the first time a fear began to creep in my mind that there
was real danger for him ahead. I had always associated him
with strength and health, and I could not think of death in
connection with him. He had always laughed at the idea of
death, made fun of it, and told us that he proposed to live for
t further lone term of years. Latterly I had noticed that when-
ever an old friend of his youth died, he had a sense of lone-
liness, of being left by himself in strange company, and even a

THE NO-TAX CAMPAIGN

241

hint of an approaching end. But generally this mood passed
and his overflowing vitality asserted itself, and we of his family
had grown so used to his nch personality and the all-embracing
warmth of his affection, that it was difficult for us to think of
the world without him.

I was troubled by that look of his and my mind was full of
forebodings. Yet I did not think that any danger to him lay in
the near future. I was myself, for some unknown reason, keep-
ing poor health just then.

Those were the last days of the first Round Table Confer-
ence, and we were a little amused— and I am afraid our amuse-
ment had a touch of disdain in it — at the final flourishes and
gestures. Those speeches and platitudes and discussions seemed
unreal and futile, but one reality stood out: that even in the
hour of our country's sorest trial, and when our men and
women had behaved so wonderfully, there were some of our
countrymen who were prepared to ignore our struggle and give
their moral support to the other side. It became clearer to us
than it had been before how, under the deceptive cover of
nationalism, conflicting economic interests were at work, and
how those with vested interests were trying to preserve them
for the future in the name of this very nationalism. The Round
Table Conference was an obvious collection of these vested
interests. Many of them had opposed our struggle; some had
silently stood aside, reminding us, however, from time to time
that " they also serve who only stand and wait.” But the wait-
ing period came to a sudden end when London beckoned, and
they trooped up to ensure the safety of their own particular
interests and to share in such further spoils as might be forth-
coming. This general lining up in London was hastened by a
realisation that the Congress was going increasingly to the Left
and the masses were influencing it more and more. Instinc-
tively, it was felt that if a root and branch political change
came in India, it would mean the dominance, or at least the
emergence into importance, of various mass elements, and these
would inevitably press towards radical social changes and thus
endanger those vested interests. The Indian vested interests
drew back from this, to them, alarming prospect, and this led
them to oppose any far-reaching political change. They, wanted
the British to remain in India as a deciding factor, to preserve
the existing social structure and the existing vested interests.
This was the real thought that underlay the insistence on
Dominion Status. A well-known Indian Liberal leader once got
rather irritated with me for insisting that, as an essential part
1

242 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

of a settlement with Great Britain, the British Army should
withdraw immediately from India and the Indian Army must
be put under Indian democratic control. He went to the length
of saying that even if the British Government agreed to do this,
he would oppose it with all his might. He opposed this obvious
and essential preliminary* to any kind of national freedom,
therefore, not because it was difficult of achievement under
existing circumstances, but because he considered it undesirable.
Partly, it may be thought, this was due to fear of external
invasion, and he wanted the British Army to protect us from
this. Quite apart from the possibility or otherwise of such an
invasion, it seems a humiliating thought for any Indian of
spirit to ask for an outsider’s protection. But I do not think this
is the real reason behind the desire to keep the strong arm of
the British in India; the British are required to preserve Indian
vested interests against Indians themselves, against undiluted
democracy, against an upsurge of the masses.

So the Indian Round Table Delegates, not only the declared
reactionaries and communalists, but even those who called them-
selves progressives and nationalists, found much in common
between themselves and the British Government. Nationalism in-
deed seemed to us a term of wide and varied reach, if it included
in its embrace both those who went to gaol in India in further-
ance of the struggle for freedom and those who shook hands and
lined up with our gaolers and discussed a common policy with
them. There were others also in our country, brave nationalists,
fluent of speech, who encouraged the Swadeshi movement in
every way, telling us that therein lay the heart of Swaraj , and
calling upon their countrymen to further it even at a sacrifice.
Fortunately the movement brought no sacrifice to them; it in-
creased their businesses and their dividends. And while many
went to prison or faced the lathi , they sat in their counting
houses counting out their money. Later, when aggressive
nationalism became a little more risky, they toned down their
speeches, and condemned the ‘ extremists and made pacts and
agreements with the other party.

We did not really mind or care what the Round Table Con-
ference did. It was far away, unreal and shadowy, and the
struggle lay here in our towns and villages. We had no illusions
about the* speedy termination of our struggle or about the
dangers ahead, and yet the events of 1930 had given us a cer-
tain confidence in our national strength and stamina, and with
that confidence we faced the future.

One incident in December or early January had pained us

THE NO-TAX CAMPAIGN

*43

greatly. Mr. Srinivas Sastri, in a speech at Edinburgh (where f
I think, the freedom of the city was presented to him), referred
with some contempt to those who were going to prison in India
in the civil disobedience movement. That speech, and especi-
ally the occasion for it, hurt us to the quick. For though we
differed from Mr. Sastri greatly in politics, we respected him.

Mr. Ramsay MacDonald had wound up the Round Table
Conference with one of his usual brotherly speeches, and this
seemed to contain an implied appeal to the Congress to give up
its evil ways and join the happy throng. Just about that time—
the middle of January 1931— the Congress Working Committee
met at Allahabad, and, among other matters, this speech and
appeal were also considered. I was in Naini Prison then, and I
heard of the proceedings on my release. Father had just re-
turned from Calcutta, and, though he was very ill, he insisted
on the members gathering round his bed and discussing this
subject there. Some one made a suggestion in favour of a
gesture to Mr. MacDonald and toning down civil disobedience.
This excited father greatly, and he sat up in bed and declared
that he would not compromise till the national objective had
been gained, and that he would carry on the struggle, even if
he was the sole person left to do so. This excitement was very
bad for him, and as his temperature shot up, the doctors sue
cceded at last in removing the visitors and leaving him alone.

Largely at his instance, the Working Committee passed an
uncompromising resolution. Before this was published, a cable
came from Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and Mr. Srinivas Sastri ad-
dressed to father, requesting the Congress, through him, not to
come to any decision till they had had an opportunity of a
discussion. They were already on their way home. A reply was
sent to the effect that a resolution had already been passed by
the Working Committee, but this would be withheld from the
Press till Messrs. Sapru and Sastri had arrived and had a dis-
cussion.

Inside the prison we did not know of these developments
outside. But we knew that something was afoot and we were
rather worried. What filled our minds much more was the
approach of January 26th, the first anniversary of Indepen-
dence Day, and we wondered how this would be celebrated. It
was observed, as we learnt subsequently, all over the country
by the holding of mass meetings whicn confirmed the resolu-
tion of independence, and passed an identical resolution called
the “ Resolution of Remembrance ”. 1 The organisation of this
1 This resolution is given in Appendix C. (p.615)

244 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

celebration was a remarkable feat, for newspapers and printing
presses were not available, nor could the post or telegraph be
utilised. And yet an identical resolution, in the particular lan-
guage of the province concerned, was passed at large gatherings
held at more or less the same times at innumerable places,
urban and rural, throughout the country. Most of these
gatherings were held in defiance of the law and were forcibly
dispersed by the police.

January a 6 th found us in Naini Prison musing of the year
that was past and of the year that was to come. In the fore-
noon I was told suddenly that my father's condition was serious
and that I must go home immediately. On enquiry, I was in-
formed that I was being discharged. Ranjit also accompanied
me.

That evening, many other persons were discharged from
various prisons throughout India. These were the original and
substitute members of the Congress Working Committee. The
Government was giving us a chance to meet and consider the
situation. So, in any event, I would have been discharged that
evening. Father’s condition hastened my release by a few hours.
Kamala also was discharged that day from her Lucknow prison
after a brief gaol life of 26 days. She too was a substitute
member of the Working Committee.

XXXIII

DEATH OF MY FATHER

I saw father after two weeks, for he had visited me at Naini
on January 12th when his appearance had riven me a shock.
He had now changed for the worse, and his race was even more
swollen. He had some little difficulty in speaking, and his mind
was not always quite clear. But his old will remained, and this
held on and Kept the body and mind functioning.

He was pleased to see Ranjit and me. A day or two later
Ranjit (who did not come in the category of Working Com-
mittee members) was taken back to Naim Prison. This upset
father, and he was continually asking for him and complaining
that when so many people were coming to see him from dis-
tant parts of India, his own son-in-law was kept away. The
doctors were worried by this insistence, and it was obvious that
it was doing father no good. After three or four days, I think
at the doctors' suggestion, the U.P. Government released Ranjit.

On January 26th, the same day that I was discharged, Gandhiji
was also discharged from Yeravda Prison. I was anxious to
have him in Allahabad, and when I mentioned his release to
father, I found that he was eager to see him. The very next
day Gandhiji started from Bombay after a stupendous mass
meeting of welcome there, such as even Bombay had not seen
before. He arrived at Allahabad late at night, Dut father was
lying awake, waiting for him, and his presence and the few
words he uttered had a markedly soothing effect on father. To
my mother also his coming brought solace and relief.

The various Working Committee members, original and sub-
stitute, who had been released, were meanwhile at a loose end
and were waiting for directions about a meeting. Many of
them, anxious about father, wanted to come*to ATlahabaa im-
mediately. It was decided therefore to summon them all forth-
with to a meeting at Allahabad. Two days later thirty or forty
of them arrived, and their meetings took place in Swaraj
Bhawan next to our house. I went to these meetings from time
to time, but I was much too distraught to take any effective
part in them, and I have at present no recollection whatever
of what their decisions were. I suppose they were in favour of
a continuance of the civil disobedience movement.

All these old friends and colleagues who had come, many of

*45

246 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

them freshly out of prison and expecting to go back again soon,
wanted to visit father and to have what was likely to be a last
glimpse and a last farewell of him. They came to him in twos
and threes in the mornings and evenings, and father insisted
on sitting up in an easy-chair to receive his old comrades. There
he sat, massively and rather expressionlessly, for the swelling
on his face prevented much play of expression. But as one old
friend came after another ana comrade succeeded comrade,
there was a glitter in his eye and recognition of them, and his
head bowed a little and his hands joined in salutation. And
though he could not speak much, sometimes he would say a
few words, and even then his old humour did not leave him.
There he sat like an old lion mortally wounded and with his
physical strength almost gone, but still very leonine and kingly.
As I watched him, I wondered what thoughts passed through
his head, or was he past taking interest in our activities? He
was evidently often struggling with himself, trying to keep a
grip of things which threatened to slip away from his grasp.
To the end this struggle continued, and he did not give in,
occasionally speaking to us with extreme clarity. Even when
a constriction in his throat made it difficult for him to make
himself understood, he took to writing on slips of paper what
he wanted to say.

He took practically no interest in the Working Committee
meetings which were taking place next door. A fortnight earlier
they would have excited him, but now he felt that he was
already far away from such happenings. “I am going soon,
Mahatmaji,” he said to Gandhiji, “ and I shall not be here to
see Swaraj. But I know that you have won it and will soon
have it.”

Most of the people who had come from other cities and pro-
vinces departed. Gandhiji remained, and a few intimate friends
and near relatives, and the three eminent doctors, old friends
of his, to whom, he used to say, he had handed over his body
for safe keeping— M. A. Ansari, Bidhan Chandra Roy, and
Jivraj Mehta. On the morning of February 4th he seemed to
be a little better, and it was decided to take advantage of this
and remove him to Lucknow, where there were facilities for
deep X-ray treatment which Allahabad did not possess. That
very day we took him by car, Gandhiji and a large party fol-
lowing us. We went slowly, but he was nevertheless exhausted.
The next day he seemed to be getting over the fatigue, and yet
there were some disquieting symptoms. Early next morning,
February 6th, I was watching by his bedside. He had had a

DEATH OF MY FATHER

*47

troublesome and restless night; suddenly I noticed that his face
grew calm and the sense of struggle vanished from it. I thought
that he had fallen asleep, and 1 was glad of it. But my mother’s
perceptions were keener, and she uttered a cry. I turned to her
and begged her not to disturb him as he had fallen asleep. But
that sleep was his last long sleep, and from it there was no
awakening.

We brought his body that very day by car to Allahabad. I
sat in that car and Ranjit drove it, and there was Hari, father’s
favourite personal servant. Behind us came another car con-
taining my mother and Gandhiji, and then other cars. I was
dazed all that day, hardly realising what had happened, and a
succession of events and large crowds kept me from thinking.
Great crowds in Lucknow, gathered together at brief notice —
the swift dash from Lucknow to Allahabad sitting by the body,
wrapped in our national flag, and with a big flag flying above —
the arrival at Allahabad, and the huge crowds that had gathered
for miles to pay homage to his memory. There were some
ceremonies at home, and then the last journey to the Ganga
with a mighty concourse of people. As evening fell on the
river bank on that winter day, the great flames leapt up and
consumed that body which had meant so much to us who were
close to him as well as to millions in India. Gandhiji said a few
moving words to the multitude, and then all of us crept silently
home. The stars were out and shining brightly when we re-
turned, lonely and desolate.

Many thousands of messages of sympathy came to my
mother and to me. Lord and Lady Irwin also sent my mother
a courteous message. This tremendous volume of goodwill and
sympathy took away somewhat the sting from our sorrow, but
it was, above all, the wonderfully soothing and healing presence
of Gandhiji that helped my mother and all of us to face that
crisis in our lives.

I found it difficult to realise that he had gone. Three months
later I was in Ceylon with my wife and daughter, and we were
spending a few quiet and restful days at Nuwara Eliya. I liked
the place, and it struck me suddenly that it would suit father.
Why not send for him? He must be tired out, and rest would
do him good. I was on the point of sending a telegram to him
to Allahabad.

On our return to Allahabad from Ceylon the post brought
one day a remarkable letter. The envelope was addressed to
me in father’s handwriting, and it bore innumerable marks and
stamps of different post offices. I opened it in amazement to

248 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

find that it was, indeed, a letter from father to me, only it was
dated the 28th February, 1926. It was delivered to me in the
summer of 1931, thus taking five and a half years in its
journey. The letter had been written by father at Ahmedabad
on the eve of my departure for Europe with Kamala in 1926.
It was addressed to me to Bombay care of the Italian Lloyd
steamer on which we were travelling. Apparently it just missed
us there, and then it visited various places, and perhaps lay in
many pigeon-holes till some enterprising person sent it on to
me. Curiously enough, it was a letter of farewell.

XXXIV

THE DELHI PACT

On the day and almost at the very hour of my father’s death,
a large group of the Indian members of the Round Table Con-
ference landed in Bombay. Mr. Srinivasa Sastri and Sir Tej
Bahadur Sapru, and perhaps some others whom I do not re-
member, came direct to Allahabad. Gandhiji and some mem-
bers of the Congress Working Committee were already there.
There were some private meetings at our house at which an
account was given of what the R.T.C. had done. At the very
commencement, however, there was a little incident. Mr. Sastrt,
entirely of his own accord, expressed regret for what he had
said at Edinburgh. He added that he was much influenced
always by his surroundings and his ‘ exuberant verbosity ’ was
apt to run away with him.

The Round Table Delegates did not tell us anything of impor-
tance about the R.T.C. that we did not know already. They did
tell us of various intrigues behind the scenes, of what Lord So-
and-So said or Sir Somebody did in private. Our Liberal friends
in India have always seemed to me to attach more importance
to private talks and gossip with and about high officials than
to principles or to the realities of the Indian situation. Our
informal discussions with the Liberal leaders did not lead to
anything, and our previous opinions were only confirmed that
the R.T.C. decisions had not the least value. Some one then
suggested — I forget who he was — that Gandhiji should write to
the Viceroy and ask for an interview and have a frank talk
with him. He agreed to do so, although I do not think that he
expected much in the way of result. But, on principle, he was
always willing to go out of his way to meet and discuss any-
thing with his opponents. Being absolutely convinced of tne
rightness of his own position he hoped to convince the other
party; but it was perhaps something more than intellectual con-
viction that he aimed at. He was always after a psychological
change, a breaking of the barriers of anger and distrust, an
approach to the other’s goodwill and fine feelings. He knew
that if this change took place, conviction became far easier, or
even if there was no conviction, opposition was toned down
and the sting was taken out of the conflict. In his personal
dealings with individuals hostile to him, he had gained many

*49

250 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

a victory; it was remarkable how, by sheer force of personality,
he would win over an opponent. Many a critic and a scoffer
had been overwhelmed by this personality and became an
admirer, and even though the criticism continued, it could
never again have a trace of mockery.

Conscious of this power, Gandhiji always welcomed a meet-
ing with those who disagreed with him. But it was one thing
to deal with individuals on personal or minor issues; it was
quite another matter to come up against an impersonal thing
like the British Government representing triumphant imperial-
ism. Realising this, Gandhiji went to the interview with
Lord Irwin with no high expectation. The Civil Disobedience
movement was still going on, though it had toned down because
there was much talk of pourparlers with Government.

The interview was arranged without delay, and Gandhiji
went off to Delhi, telling us that if there were any serious
conversations with the Viceroy regarding a provisional settle-
ment, he would send for the members of the Working Com-
mittee. A few days later we were all summoned to Delhi. For
three weeks we remained there, meeting daily and having long
and exhausting discussions. Gandhiji had frequent interviews
with Lord Irwin, but sometimes there was a gap of three or
four days, probably because the Government of India was
communicating with the India Office in London. Sometimes
apparently small matters or even certain words would hold up
progress. One such word was 4 suspension ’ of civil disobedience.
Gandhiji had all along made it clear that civil ^isobedience
could not be finally stopped or given up, as it was the only
weapon in the hands of the people. It could, however, be sus-
pended. Lord Irwin objected to this word and wanted finality
about the word, to which Gandhiji would not agree. Ultimately
the word 4 discontinued ’ was used. There were also prolonged
discussions about the picketing of foreign cloth and liquor
shops. Most of our time was spent on considering pro-
visional arrangements for a pact, and little attention was given
to fundamental matters. Probably it was thought that these
basic matters could be considered later under more favourable
conditions when a provisional settlement had been made and
the day-to-day struggle discontinued. We looked upon those
talks as leading up to an armistice, which might then be fol-
lowed by further conversations on the real matters in issue.

Delhi attracted in those days all manner of people. There
were many foreign journalists, especially Americans, and they
were somewhat annoyed with us for our reticence. They would

THE DELHI PACT

*5*

tell us that they got much more news about the Gandhiji-Irwin
conversations from the New Delhi Secretariat than from us,
which was a fact. Then there were many people of high degree
who hurried to pay their respects to Gandhiji, for was not the
Mahatma’s star in the ascendant? It was very amusing to see
these people, who had kept far away from Gandhiji and the
Congress and often condemned them, now hastening to make
amends. The Congress seemed to have made good, and no one
knew what the future might hold. Anyway, it was safer to keep
on good terms with the Congress and its leaders. A year later
yet another change was witnessed in them, and they were
shouting their deep abhorrence of the Congress and all its
works and their utter dissociation from it.

Even the communalists were stirred by events, and sensed
with some apprehension that they might not occupy a very
prominent place in the coming order. And so, many of them
came to the Mahatma and assured him that they were per-
fectly willing to come to terms on the communal issue and, if
only he would take the initiative, there would be no difficulty
about a settlement.

A ceaseless stream of people, of high and low degree, came
to Dr. Ansari’s house, where Gandhiji and most of us were
staying, and in our leisure moments we watched them with
interest and profit. For some years our chief contacts had been
with the poor in towns and villages and those who were down
and out in gaols. The very prosperous gentlemen who came
to visit Gandhiji showed us another side of human nature, and
a very adaptable side, for wherever they sensed power and
success, they turned to it and welcomed it with the sunshine
of their smiles. Many of them were staunch pillars of the
British Government in India. It was comforting to know that
they would become equally staunch pillars of any other
government that might flourish in India.

Often in those days I used to accompany Gandhiji in his
early morning walks in New Delhi. That was usually the only
time one had a chance of talking to him, for the rest of the
day was cut up into little bits, each minute allotted to some-
body or something. Even the early morning walk was some-
times given over to an interviewer, usually from abroad, or
to a friend, come for a personal consultation. We talked of
many matters, of the past, of the present, and especially of the
future. I remember how he surprised me with one of his ideas
about the future of the Congress. I had imagined that the
Congress, as such, would automatically cease to exist with the

2J2 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

coming of freedom. He thought that the Congress should
continue, but on one condition: that it passed a self-denying
ordinance, laying it down that none of its members could
accept a paid job under the State, and if any one wanted such
a post of authority in the State, he would have to leave the
Congress. I do not at present remember how he worked this
out, but the whole idea underlying it was that the Congress
by its detachment and having no axe to grind, could exercise
tremendous moral pressure on the Executive as well as other
departments of the Government, and thus keep them on the
right track.

Now this is an extraordinary idea which I find it difficult
to grasp, and innumerable difficulties present themselves. It
seems to me that such an assembly, if it could be conceived,
would be exploited by some vested interest. But practicality
apart, it does help one to understand a little the background of
Gandhiji’s thought. It is the very opposite of the modern idea
of a party which is built up to seize the State power in order
to refashion the political and economic structure according to
certain pre-conceived ideas; or that kind of party, found often
enough nowadays, whose function seems to be (to quote
Mr. R. H. Tawney) to offer the largest possible number of
carrots to the largest number of donkeys.

Gandhiji’s conception of democracy is definitely a meta-
physical one. It has nothing to do with numbers or majority
or representation in the ordinary sense. It is based on service
and sacrifice, and it uses moral pressure. In a recent statement 1
he defines a democrat. He claims to be * a bom democrat
“ I make that claim, if complete identification with the poorest
of mankind, longing to live no better than they, and a cor-
responding conscious effort to approach that level to the best
of one’s ability, can entitle one to make it.” He further dis-
cusses democracy :

"Let us recognise the fact that the Congress enjoys the
prestige of a democratic character and influence not by the
number of delegates and visitors it has drawn to its annual
function, but by an ever-increasing amount of service it has
rendered. Western democracy is on its trial, if it has not al-
ready proved a failure. May it be reserved to India to evolve
the true science of democracy by giving a visible demonstration
of its success.

"Corruption and hypocrisy ought not to be the inevitable
products of democracy, as tney undoubtedly are to-day. Nor
1 Dated September 17, 1934.

THE DELHI PACT

*53

is bulk a true test of democracy. True democracy is not in-
consistent with a few persons representing the spirit, the hope
and the aspirations of those whom they claim to represent.
I hold that democracy cannot be evolved by forcible methods.
The spirit of democracy cannot be imposed from without; it
has to come from within.”

This is certainly not Western democracy, as he himself says;
but, curiously enough, there is some similarity to the com-
munist conception of democracy, for that, too, has a meta-
physical touch. A few communists will claim to represent the
real needs and desires of the masses, even though the latter
may themselves be unaware of them. The mass will become
a metaphysical conception with them, and it is this that they
claim to represent. The similarity, however, is slight and does
not take us far; the differences in outlook and approach are far
greater, notably in regard to methods and force.

Whether Gandhiji is a democrat or not, he does represent the
peasant masses of India; he is the quintessence of the conscious
and subconscious will of those millions. It is perhaps something
more than representation; for he is the idealised personification
of those vast millions. Of course, he is not the average peasant.
A man of the keenest intellect, of fine feeling and good taste,
wide vision; very human, and yet essentially the ascetic who
has suppressed his passions and emotions, sublimated them
and directed them in spiritual channels; a tremendous person-
ality, drawing people to himself like a magnet, and calling out
fierce loyalties and attachments — all this so utterly unlike and
beyond a peasant. And yet withal he is the great peasant, with
a peasant’s outlook on affairs, and with a peasant’s blindness to
some aspects of life. But India is peasant India, and so he
knows his India well and reacts to her lightest tremors, and
gauges a situation accurately and almost instinctively, and has
a knack of acting at the psychological moment.

What a problem and a puzzle he has been not only to the
British Government but to his own people ^ and his closest
associates! Perhaps in every other country he would be out of
place to-day, but* India still seems to understand, or at least
appreciate, the prophetic-religious type of man, talking of sin
and salvation and non-violence. Indian mythology is full of
stories of great ascetics, who, by the rigour of their sacrifices
and self-imposed penance, built up a 1 mountain of merit ’ which
threatened the dominion of some of the lesser gods and upset
the established order. These myths have often come to my
mind when I have watched the amazing energy and inner

254 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

power of Gandhiji, coming out of some inexhaustible spiritual
reservoir. He was obviously not of the worlds ordinary coin-
age; he was minted of a different and rare variety, and often
the unknown stared at us through his eyes.

India, even urban India, even the new industrial India, had
the impress of the peasant upon her, and it was natural enough
for her to make this son of hers, so like her and yet so unlike,
an idol and a beloved leader. He revived ancient and half-
forgotten memories, and gave her glimpses of her own soul.
Crushed in the dark misery of the present, she had tried to find
relief in helpless muttering and in vague dreams of the past
and the future, but he came and gave hope to her mind and
strength to her much-battered body, and the future became
an alluring vision. Two-faced like Janus, she looked both back-
wards into the past and forward into the future, and tried to
combine the two.

Many of us had cut adrift from this peasant outlook, and
the old ways of thought and custom and religion had become
alien to us. We called ourselves modems, and thought in terms
of 'progress’, and industrialisation and a higher standard of
living and collectivisation. We considered the peasant’s view-
point reactionary, and some, and a growing number, looked with
favour towards socialism and communism. How came we to
associate ourselves with Gandhiji politically, and to become, in
many instances, his devoted followers? The question is hard
to answer, and to one who does not know Gandhiji, no answer
is likely to satisfy. Personality is an indefinable thing, a strange
force that has power over the souls of men, and he possesses
this in ample measure, and to all who come to him he often
appears in a different aspect. He attracted people, but it was
ultimately intellectual conviction that brought them to him and
kept them there. They did not agree with his philosophy of
life, or even with many of his ideals. Often they aid not
understand him. But the action that he proposed was some-
thing tangible which could be understood and appreciated
intellectually. Any action would have been welcome after the
long tradition of inaction which our spineless politics had
nurtured; brave and effective action with an ethical halo about
it had an irresistible appeal, both to the intellect and the
emotions. Step by step he convinced us of the rightness of the
action, and we went with him, although we did not accept his
philosophy. To divorce action from the thought underlying it
was not perhaps a proper procedure and was bound to lead to
mental conflict and trouble later. Vaguely we hoped that

THE DELHI PACT

*55

Gandhiji, being essentially a man of action and very sensitive
to changing conditions, would advance along the line that
seemed to us to be right. And in any event the road he was
following was the right one thus far, and if the future meant
a parting it would be folly to anticipate it.

All this shows that we were by no means clear or certain in
our minds. Always we had the feeling that while we might
be more logical, Gandhiji knew India far better than we wd,
and a man who could command such tremendous devotion and
loyalty must have something in him that corresponded to the
needs and aspirations of the masses. If we could convince him,
we felt that we could also convert these masses. And it seemed
possible to convince him for, in spite of his peasant outlook,
he was the bom rebel, a revolutionary out for big changes,
whom no fear of consequences could stop.

How he disciplined our lazy and demoralised people and
made them wont — not by force or any material inducement,
but by a gentle look and a soft word ana, above all, by personal
example 1 In the early days of Satyagraha in India, as long
ago as 1919 , 1 remember how Umar Sobani of Bombay called
him the ‘beloved slave-driver’. Much had happened in the
dozen years since then. Umar had not lived to see these
changes, but we who had been more fortunate looked back
from those early months of 1931 with joy and elation. Nine-
teen-thirty had, indeed, been a wonder year for us, and Gandhiji
seemed to have changed the face of our country with his magic
touch. No one was foolish enough to think that we had
triumphed finally over the British Government. Our feeling
of elation had little to do with the Government. We were
proud of our people, of our women folk, of our youth, of our
children for the part they had played in the movement. It was
a spiritual gain, valuable at any time and to any people, but
doubly so to us, a subject and down-trodden people. And we
were anxious that nothing should happen to take this away
from us.

To me, personally, Gandhiji had always shown extraordinary
kindness and consideration, and my father’s death had brought
him particularly near to me. He had always listened patiently
to whatever I had to say, and had made every effort to meet my
wishes. This had, indeed, led me to think that perhaps some
colleagues and I could influence him continuously in a socialist
direction, and 1 m had himself said that he was prepared to go
step by step as he saw his way to do so. It seemed to me almost
inevitable then that he would accept the fundamental socialist

356 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

position, as I saw no other way out from the violence and in-
justice and waste and misery of the existing order. He might
disagree about the methods but not about the ideal. So I
thought then, but I realise now that there are basic differences
between Gandhiji’s ideals and the socialist objective.

To go back to Delhi in February 1931. The Gandhi-Irwin
talks went on from time to time, and then they came to a
sudden stop. For several days Gandhiji was not sent for by
the Viceroy, and it seemed to us that the break had come. The
members of the Working Committee prepared to leave Delhi
for their respective provinces. Before leaving we conferred to-
gether about our future plans and civil disobedience (which
was in theory still going on). We felt certain that as soon as
the break was definitely announced we would have no further
opportunity of meeting and conferring together. We expected
arrest, and we had been told, and it seemed likely, that the
Government would launch a fierce offensive against the Con-
gress; something much fiercer than we had so far had. So we
met together at what we thought was our final meeting, and
we passed various resolutions to guide the movement in the
future. One resolution had a certain significance. So far, the
practice had been for each Acting-President to nominate his
successor in case of arrest, and also to fill by nomination the
vacancies in the Working Committee. The substitute Working
Committees hardly functioned and had little authority to take
the initiative in any matter. They could only go to prison.
There was always a risk, however, that this continuous process
of substitution might place the Congress in a false position.
There were obvious dangers to it. The Working Committee in
Delhi, therefore, decided that in future there should be no
nominations of acting-Presidents or substitute members. So
long as any members (or member) of the original Committee
were out of gaol they would function as the full Committee.
When all of them were in prison, then there would be no
Committee functioning, but, we said rather grandiloquently,
the powers of the Working Committee would then vest in each
man and woman in the country, and we called upon them to
cany on the struggle uncompromisingly.

This resolution was a brave lead for a continuance of the
fight, send it left no loophole for compromise. It was also a
recognition of the fact that it was becoming increasingly dif-
ficult for our. headquarters to keep in touch with all parts of
the country and to issue instructions regularly. This was
inevitable, as most of our workers were well-known men and

THE DELHI PACT

*57

women, and they worked openly. They could always be arrested
During 1930 a secret courier service had been built up to carry
instructions, bring reports, and do inspection work. This
worked well, and it demonstrated to us that we could organise
secret information work of this kind with great success. But
to some extent it did not fit in with our open movement, and
Gandhiji was averse to it. In the absence of instructions from
headquarters we had to place the responsibility for carrying
on the work on local people, as otherwise they would simply
wait helplessly for directions from above and do nothing. When
possible, of course, instructions were sent.

So we passed this resolution and other resolutions (none of
them were published or became effective because of subsequent
events) and packed up to go. Just then another summons came
from Lord Irwin, and the conversations were resumed.

On the night of the 4th of March we waited till midnight
for Gandhijrs return from the Viceroy's house. He came back
about 2 a.m., and we were woken up and told that an agree-
ment had been reached. We saw the draft. I knew most of the
clauses, for they had been often discussed, but, at the very top,
clause 2 1 with its reference to safeguards, etc., gave me a tre-
mendous shock. I was wholly unprepared for it. I said nothing
then, and we all retired.

There was nothing more to be said. The thing had been
done, our leader had committed himself ; and even if we dis-
agreed with him, what could we do? Throw him over? Break
from him? Announce our disagreement? That might bring
some personal satisfaction to an individual, but it made no
difference to the final decision. The Civil Disobedience move-
ment was ended for the time being at least, and not even the
Working Committee could push it on now, when the Govern-
ment could declare that Mr. Gandhi had already agreed to a
settlement. I was perfectly willing, as were our other colleagues,
to suspend civil disobedience and to come to a temporary settle-

1 Clause 2 of the Delhi Setdement (dated March 5, 1931): “As
regards constitutional questions, the scope of future discussion is
stated, with the assent of His Majesty’s Government, to be with
the object of considering further the scheme for the constitutional
Government of India discussed at the Round Table Conference. Of
the scheme there outlined, Federation is an essential part; so also
are Indian responsibility and reservations or safeguards in the in-
terests of India, for sucn matters as, for instance, defence; external
affairs; the position of minorities; the financial credit of India, and
the discharge of obligations.”

258 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

ment with the Government. It was not an easy matter for any
of us to send our comrades back to gaol, or to be instrumental
in keeping many thousands in prison who were already there.
Prison is not a pleasant place to spend our days and nights,
though many of us may train ourselves for it and talk light-
heartedly of its crushing routine. Besides, three weeks or more
of conversations between Gandhiji and Lord Irwin had led the
country to expect that a settlement was coming, and a final
break would have been a disappointment. So all of us in the
Working Committee were decidedly in favour of a provisional
settlement (for obviously it could be nothing more), provided
that thereby we did not surrender any vital position.

So far as I was concerned I was not very much concerned
with many of the points that had given rise to great argument.
Two matters interested me above all others. One was that our
objective of independence should in no way be toned down,
and the second was the effect of the settlement on our U.P.
agrarian situation. Our no-tax or no-rent campaign had so far
been a great success, and in certain areas hardly any collections
had been made. The peasantry were in fine mettle, and world
agricultural conditions and prices were worse than ever, making
it difficult for them to pay. Our no-tax campaign had been
both political and economic. If there was a provisional settle-
ment with the Government, civil disobedience would be with-
drawn and the political basis for the no-tax campaign would
go. But what of the economic side, of the terrible rail in prices,
and of the inability of most of the peasants to pay anything
like the demand? Gandhiji had made this point quite clear to
Lord Irwjn. He had stated that while the no-tax campaign
would be withdrawn, we could not advise the peasantry to pay
beyond their capacity. This matter could not be discussed in
detail with the Government of India as it was a provincial
matter. We were assured that the Provincial Government would
gladly confer with us on the subject and would do everything
in its power to relieve the distress of the peasantry. It was a
vague assurance, but, under the circumstances, it was difficult
to nave anything more definite. This matter was thus, for the
time being, disposed of.

The other and vital question of our objective, of indepen-
dence, remained. And now I saw in that Clause 2 of the settle-
ment that even this seemed to be jeopardised. Was it for this
that our people had behaved so gallantly for a year? Were all
our brave words and deeds to end in this? The independence
resolution of the Congress, the pledge of January 26, so often

THE DELHI PACT

* 59

repeated? So I lay and pondered on that March night, and in
my heart there was a great emptiness as of something precious
gone, almost beyond recall.

“ This is the way the world ends,

Not with a bang, but a whimper.”

XXXV

KARACHI CONGRESS

Gandhiji learnt indirectly of my distress, and the next morning
he asked me to accompany him in his usual walk. We had a
long talk, and he tried to convince me that nothing vital had
been lost, no surrender of principle made. He interpreted
Clause 2 of the agreement in a particular way so as to make it
fit in with our demand for independence, relying chiefly on the
words in it: "in the interests of India.” The interpretation
seemed to me to be a forced one, and I was not convinced, but
I was somewhat soothed by his talk. The merits of the agree-
ment apart, I told him that his way of springing surprises upon
us frightened me; there was something unknown about him
which, in spite of the closest association for fourteen years, I
could not understand at all and which filled me with appre-
hension. He admitted the presence of this unknown element
in him, and said that he himself could not answer for it or
foretell what it might lead to.

For a day or two I wobbled, not knowing what to do. There
was no question of opposing or preventing that agreement
then. That stage was past, and all I could do was to dissociate
myself theoretically from it, though accepting it as a matter
of fact. That would have soothed my personal vanity, but how
did it help the larger issue? Would it not be better to accept
gracefully what had been done, and put the most favourable
interpretation upon it, as Gandhiji had done? In an interview
to the Press immediately after the agreement he had stressed
that interpretation and that we stood completely by indepen-
dence. He went to Lord Irwin and made this point quite clear,
so that there might be no misapprehension then or in the
future. In the event of the Congress sending any representative
to the Round Table Conference, he told him, it could only be
on this basis and to advance this claim. Lord Irwin could not,
of course, admit the claim, but he recognised the right of the
Congress to advance it.

So I decided, not without great mental conflict and physical
distress, to accept the agreement and work for it whole-
heartedly. There appeared to me to be no middle way.

In the course of Gandhiji’s interviews with Lord Irwin
prior to the agreement, as well as after, he had pleaded for

260

KARACHI CONGRESS

26l

the release of political prisoners other than the civil disobedience
prisoners. The latter were going to be discharged as part of
the agreement itself. But there were thousands of others, both
those convicted after trial and detenus kept without any charge,
trial or conviction. Many of these detenus had been kept so for
years, and there had always been a great deal of resentment
all over India, and especially in Bengal which was most affected,
at this method of imprisonment without trial. Like the Chief
of the General Staff in Penguin Island (or was it in the Dreyfus
case?) the Government of India believed that no proofs are the
best proofs. No proofs cannot be disproved. The detenus were
alleged by the Government to be actual or potential revolu-
tionaries of the violent type. Gandhiji had pleaded for their
release, not necessarily as part of the agreement, but as
eminently desirable in order to relieve political tension and
establish a more normal atmosphere in Bengal. But the Govern-
ment was not agreeable to this.

Nor did the Government agree to Gandhiji's hard pleading
for the commutation of Bhagat Singh's death sentence. This
also had nothing to do with the agreement, and Gandhiji
pressed for it separately because of the very strong feeling all
over India on this subject. He pleaded in vain.

I remember a curious incident about that time, which gave
me an insight into the mind of the terrorist group in India.
This took place soon after my discharge from prison, either a
little before father's death or a few days after. A stranger came
to see me at our house, and I was told that he was Chan-
drashekhar Azad. I had never seen him before, but I had
heard of him ten years earlier, when he had non-co-operated
from school and gone to prison during the N.C.O. movement
in 1921. A boy of fifteen or so then, he had been flogged ir
prison for some breach of gaol discipline. Later he had drifted
towards the terrorists, and he became one of their prominent
men in north India. All this I had heard vaguely, and I had
taken no interest in these rumours. I was surprised, therefore,
to see him. He had been induced to visit me because of the
general expectation (owing to our release) that some negotia-
tions between the Government and the Congress were likely.
He wanted to know if, in case of a settlement, his group of
people would have any peace. Would they still be considered,
and treated, as outlaws; hunted out from place to place, with
a price on their heads, and the prospect of the gallows ever
before them? Or was there a possibility of their being allowed
to pursue peaceful vocations? He told me that as far as he was

262 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

concerned, as well as many of his associates, they were con-
vinced now that purely terrorist methods were futile and did no
good. He was not, however, prepared to believe that India
would gain her freedom wholly by peaceful methods. He
thought that some time in the future a violent conflict might
take place, but this would not be terrorism. He ruled out
terrorism as such, so far as the question of Indian freedom was
concerned. But then, he added, what was he to do when no
chance was given him to settle down, as he was being hounded
all the time? Many of the terroristic acts that had occurred
recently, according to him, were purely in self-defence.

I was glad to learn from Azad, and I had confirmation of
this subsequently, that the belief in terrorism was dying down.
As a group notion, indeed, it had practically gone, and indi-
vidual and sporadic cases were probably due to some special
reason, act of reprisal, or individual aberration, and not to
a general idea. This did not mean, of course, that the old
terrorists or their new associates had become converts to non-
violence, or admirers of British rule. But they did not thinlr
in terms of terrorism as they used to. Many of them, it seems
to me, have definitely the fascist mentality.

I tried to explain to Chandrashekhar Azad what my philo-
sophy of political action was, and tried to convert him to my
view-point. But I had no answer to his basic question: what
was he to do now? Nothing was likely to happen that would
bring him, or his like, any relief or peace. All I could suggest
was that he should use his influence to prevent the occurrence
of terrorist acts, in the future, for these could only injure the
larger cause as well as his own group.

Two or three weeks later, while the Gandhi-Irwin talks were
going on, I heard at Delhi that Chandrashekhar Azad had
been shot down and killed by the police in Allahabad. He was
recognised in the day-time in a park, and was surrounded by
a large force of police. He tried to defend himself from behind
a tree; there was quite a shooting-match, and he injured one or
two policemen before he was shot down.

I left Delhi soon after the provisional settlement was arrived
at, and went to Lucknow. We had taken immediate steps to
stop civil disobedience all over the country, and the whole
Congress organisation had responded to our new instructions
with remarkable discipline. We had many people in our ranks
who were dissatisfied, many fire-brands, and we had no m»an«
of compelling them to desnt from the old activities. But with-
out a single exception known to me, the huge organisation

KARACHI CONGRESS

*63

accepted in practice the new r 61 e, though many criticised it.
I was particularly interested in the reactions in our province,
as the no-tax campaign was going strong in some areas there.
Our first job was to see that the civil disobedience prisoners
were discharged. Thousands of these were discharged from day
to day, and after some time only a number of disputed cases
were left in prison; apart, of course, from the thousands of
detenus -and those convicted for violent activities, who were
not released.

These discharged prisoners, when they went home to their
town or villages, were naturally welcomed back by their people.
There were often decorations and buntings, and processions,
and meetings, and speeches and addresses of welcome. It was
all very natural and to be expected, but the change was sudden
from the time when the police lathi was always in evidence,
and meetings and processions were forcibly dispersed. The
police felt rather uncomfortable, and probably there was a feel-
ing of triumph among many of our people who came out of
gaol. There was little enough reason to be triumphant, but a
coming out of gaol always brings a feeling of elation (unless the
spirit has been crushed in gaol), and mass gaol deliveries add
very much to this exhilaration.

I mention this fact here, because in later months great
exception was taken by the Government to this ‘air of
triumph ’, and it was made a charge against us ! Brought up
and living always in an authoritarian atmosphere, with a
military notion of government and with no roots or supports
in the people, nothing is more painful to them than a weaken-
ing of what they consider their prestige. None of us, so far
as I know, had given the least thought to the matter, and it
was with great surprise that we learnt later that Government
officials, from the heights of Simla to the plains below, were
simmering with anger and wounded pride at this impudence
of the people. The newspapers that echo their views have not
got over it yet; and even now, three and a half years later, they
refer with almost a visible shudder to those bold, bad days
when, according to them, Congressmen went about in triumph
as if they had won a great victory. These outbursts on the
part of the Government and its friends in the Press, came as
a revelation to us. They showed what a state of nerves they
had been in, what suppressions they had put up with, resulting
in all manner of complexes. It was extraordinary that a few
processions and a few speeches of our rank-and-file men should
so upset them.

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

264

As a matter of fact there was in Congress ranks then, and
even less in the leadership, no idea of having * defeated ’ the
British Government. But there was a feeling of triumph
amongst us at our own people’s sacrifices and courage. We
were a little proud of what the country had done in 1930; it
raised us in our self-esteem, gave us confidence, and even our
littlest volunteer straightened himself and held up his head at
the thought of this. We also felt that this great effort, which had
attracted world attention, had brought enormous pressure on
the British Government, and had taken us nearer our goal.
All this had nothing to do with defeating the Government,
and indeed many of us were fully conscious of the fact that
the Government had done rather well in the Delhi Pact. Those
of us who pointed out that we were far from our goal, and big
and difficult struggles lay ahead, were accused by mends of the
Government of war-mongering and going behind the spirit of
the Delhi Pact.

In the United Provinces we had now to face the agrarian
problem. Our policy now was one of co-operation, as far as
possible, with the British Government and immediately we put
ourselves in touch with the U.P. Provincial Government. After
a long interval — for a dozen years we had had no official deal-
ings with them — I visited some of the high officials of the
province to discuss the agrarian question. We also carried on
a lengthy correspondence on the subject. Our Provincial Con-
gress Committee appointed one of our leading men, Govind
Ballabh Pant, as a special liaison officer to keep in continuous
touch with the Provincial Government. The facts of the
agrarian crisis, of the tremendous fall in agricultural prices,
and of the inability of the average peasant to pay the rent
demanded, were admitted. The question was, what remissions
should be given, and in this matter the initiative lay with the
Provincial Government. Ordinarily the Government dealt with
the landlords alone, and not with their tenants direct, and it
was for the landlords to reduce or remit rents. But the land-
lords refused to do any such thing, so long as the Government
did not remit part of their revenue demand; and in any event
they were not, as a rule, keen on giving remissions to their
tenantry. So the decision rested with the Government.

The Provincial Congress Committee had told the peasantry
that the no-tax campaign was off, and they should pay as mucn
of their rent as they could. But, as their representatives, they
had demanded heavy remissions. For a long time Government
took no action.. Probably it was handicapped by the absence

KARACHI CONGRESS 265

on leave or special duty of the Governor, Sir Malcolm Hailey.
Prompt and far-reaching action was necessary, but the acting
Governor and his colleagues hesitated to commit .themselves,
and preferred to delay matters till the return of Sir Malcolm
Hailey in the summer. This indecision and delay made a diffi-
cult situation worse, and resulted in much suffering for the
tenantry.

I had a little breakdown in health soon after the Delhi Pact.
Even in gaol I had been unwell, and then the shock of father’s
death, followed immediately by the long strain of the Delhi
negotiations, proved too much for my physical health. I re-
covered somewhat for the Karachi Congress.

Karachi is far to the north-west of India, difficult of access,
and partly cut off from the rest of the country by desert
regions. But it attracted a great gathering from distant parts,
and truly represented the temper of the country at the
moment. There was a feeling of quiet, but deep satisfaction
at the growing strength of the national movement in India;
pride in the Congress organisation which had so far worthily
responded to the heavy calls made on it, and fully justified
itself by its disciplined sacrifice; a confidence in our people,
and a restrained enthusiasm. At the same time there was a heavy
sense of responsibility at the tremendous problems and perils
ahead; our words and resolutions were now the preludes to
action on a national scale, and could not be lightly uttered or
passed. The Delhi Pact, though accepted by the great majority,
was not popular or liked, and there was a fear that it might
lead us to all manner of compromising situations. Somehow it
seemed to take away from the clarity of the issues before the
country. On the very eve of the Congress, a new element of
resentment had crept in — the execution of Bhagat Singh. This
feeling was especially marked in North India, and Karachi,
being itself in the north, had attracted large numbers of people
from the Punjab.

The Karachi Congress was an even greater personal triumph
for Gandhiji than any previous Congress had been. The pre-
sident, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, was one of the most popular
and forceful men in India with the prestige of victorious
leadership in Gujrat, but it was the Mahatma who dominated
the scene. The Congress also had a strong contingent of ‘ Red-
shirts ’ from the Frontier Province under the leadership of
Abdul Ghaffar Khan. These Redshirts were popular and drew
a cheer wherever they went, for India had been impressed by
their extraordinary and peaceful courage in the face of great

a 66

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

provocatym from April 1930 onwards. The name 'Redshirts*
led some people to think, quite wrongly, that they were Com-
munists or left-wing labourites. As a matter of fact their name
was “ Khudai Khidmatgar ”, and this organisation had allied
itself to the Congress (later in 1931 they were to become
integral parts of the Congress organisation). They were called
Redshirts simply because of their rather primitive uniforms,
which were red. They had no economic policy in their pro-
gramme, which was nationalistic and also dealt with social
reform.

The principal resolution at Karachi dealt with the Delhi Pact
and the Round Table Conference. I accepted it, of course, as
it emerged from the Working Committee, but when I was
asked by Gandhiji to move it in the open Congress, I hesitated.
It went against the grain, and I refused at first, and then this
seemed a weak and unsatisfactory position to take up. Either
I was for it or against it, and it was not proper to prevaricate
or leave people guessing in the matter. Almost at the last
moment, a few minutes before the resolution was taken up in
the open Congress, I decided to sponsor it. In my speech I tried
to lay before the great gathering quite frankly what my feelings
were and why I had wholeheartedly accepted that resolution
and pleaded with them to accept it. That speech, made on the
spur of the moment and coming from the heart, and with little
of ornament or fine phrasing in it, was probably a greater
success than many of my other efforts, which had followed a
more careful preparation.

I spoke on other resolutions, too, notably on the Bhagat Singh
resolution and the one on Fundamental Rights and Economic
Policy. The latter resolution interested me especially, partly
because of what it contained, and even more so because it
represented a new outlook in the Congress. So far the Congress
had thought along purely nationalist lines, and had avoided
facing economic issues, except in so far as it encouraged cottage
industries and swadeshi generally. In the Karachi resolution it
took a step, a very short step, in a socialist direction by advo-
cating nationalisation of key industries and services, and
various other measures to lessen the burden on the poor and
increase it on the rich. This was not socialism at all, and
a capitalist state could easily accept almost everything con-
tained in that resolution.

This very mild and prosaic resolution evidently made the big
people of the Government of India furiously to think. Perhaps
they even pictured, with their usual perspicacity, the red gold

KARACHI CONGRESS

26 7

of the Bolsheviks stealing its way into Karachi and corrupting
the Congress leaders. Living in a kind of political harem, cut
off from the outer world, and surrounded by an atmosphere of
secrecy, their receptive minds love to hear tales of mystery and
imagination. And then these stories are given out in little bits
in a mysterious manner, through favoured newspapers, with
a hint that much more could be seen if only the veil were
lifted. In this approved and well-practised manner, frequent
references have been made to the Karachi resolution on Fun-
damental Rights, etc., and I can only conclude that they
represent the Government view of this resolution. The story
goes that a certain mysterious individual with communist
affiliations drew up this resolution, or the greater part of it,
and thrust it down upon me at Karachi; that thereupon I issued
an ultimatum to Mr. Gandhi to accept this or to free my
opposition on the Delhi Pact issue, and Mr. Gandhi accepted
it as a sop to me, and forced it down on a tired Subjects
Committee and Congress on the concluding day.

The name of the ‘ mysterious individual ’ has, so far as I
know, not been directly mentioned, but numerous hints make
it quite clear who is meant. Not being myself used to ways of
mystery and roundabout methods of expression, I might as
well state that this person seems to be M. N. Roy. It would be
interesting to know, and instructive to the big ones of Simla
and Delhi to find out, what M. N. Roy or any other person
‘ communistically inclined ’ thinks of that very innocent Karachi
resolution. It may surprise them to discover that any such
person is rather contemptuous of the resolution because,
according to him, it is a typical product of a bourgeois re-
formist mentality.

So far as Mr. Gandhi is concerned, I have had the privilege
of knowing him pretty intimately for the last seventeen years,
and the idea of my presenting ultimatums to him or bar-
gaining with him seems to me monstrous. We may accommo-
date ourselves to each other; or we may, on a particular issue,
part company, but the methods of the market-place can never
affect our mutual dealings.

The idea of getting the Congress to pass a resolution of this
kind was an old one. For some years the U.P. Provincial
Congress Committee had been agitating in the matter, and
trying to get the A.I.C.C. to accept a socialist resolution. In
1929 it succeeded to some extent in getting the A.I.C.C. to
accept the principle. Then followed civil disobedience. During
my early morning talks in Delhi with Gandhiji in February

268 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and March 1931, I had referred to this matter, and he had
welcomed the idea of having a resolution on economic matters.
He asked me to bring the matter up at Karachi, and to draft
a resolution and show it to him there. I did so at Karachi,
and he made various changes and suggestions. He wanted both
of us to agree on the wording, before we asked the Working
Committee to consider it. I had to make several drafts, and
this delayed matters for a few days, and we were otherwise
very much occupied with other matters. Ultimately Gandhiji
and I agreed on a draft, and this was placed before the Working
Committee, and later before the Subjects Committee. It is
perfectly true that it was a new subject for the Subjects Com-
mittee and some members were surprised. However, it was
easily passed by the Committee and the Congress, and was
referred to the A.I.C.C. for further elucidation and enlargement
on the lines laid down.

While I was drafting this resolution various people, who used
to come to my tent, were sometimes consulted by me about it.
But M. N. Roy had absolutely nothing to do with it, and I
knew well enough that he would disapprove of it and laugh
at it.

I had come across M. N. Roy in Allahabad some days before
coming to Karachi. He turned up suddenly one evening at
our house, and though I had no notion that he was in India,
I recognised him immediately, having seen him in Moscow
in 1927. He saw me at Karachi also, but that was probably for
not more than five minutes. During the past few years Roy
had written a great deal in condemnation of me politically,
and he had often succeeded in hurting me a little. There was
a great deal of difference between us, and yet I felt attracted
towards him, and when later he had been arrested and was in
trouble, I wanted to do what little I could (and that was little
enough) to help him. I was attracted to him by his remarkable
intellectual capacity; I was also attracted to him because he
seemed such a lonely figure, deserted by everybody. The British
Government was naturally after him; nationalist India was not
interested in him; and those who called themselves Communists
in India condemned him as a traitor to the cause. I knew that
after many years’ residence in Russia and close cooperation
with the Comintern, he had parted with them or, perhaps,
been made. to part. Why this happened I did not know, nor
do I know still, except very vaguely, what his present views
or his differences with the orthodox Communists are. But this
desertion of a man like him by almost everybody pained me,

KARACHI CONGRESS

269

and, against my usual habit, I joined the Defence Committee.
Since that summer in 1931, over three years ago now, he has
been in prison, unwell and practically in solitary confinement.

One of the final acts of the Congress session at Karachi was
to elect a new Working Committee. This is elected by the All-
India Congress Committee, but a convention has grown up
that the suggestions of the President for the year (made in
consultation with Gandhiji and sometimes other colleagues) are
accepted by the A.I.C.C. The Karachi election of the Working
Committee led to an untoward result, which none of us anti-
cipated then. Some Muslim members of the A.I.C.C. objected
to this election, in particular to one (Muslim) name in it. Per-
haps they also felt slighted because no one of their group had
been chosen. In an all-India committee of fifteen it was mani-
festly impossible to- have all interests represented, and the real
dispute, about which we knew nothing, was an entirely personal
and local one in the Punjab. The result was that the protestant
group gradually drifted away from the Congress in the Punjab,
and joined others in an ‘Ahrar Party' or 1 Majlis-e-Ahrar '.
Some of the most active and popular Muslim Congress workers
in the Punjab joined this, and it attracted large numbers of
Punjab Muslims to it. It represented chiefly the lower middle-
class elements and it had numerous contacts with the Muslim
masses. It thus became a powerful organisation, far stronger
than the decrepit Muslim communal organisations of upper-
class folk, which functioned in the air or, rather, in drawing-
rooms and committee rooms. Inevitably, the Ahrars drifted
towards communalism, but because of their touch with the
Muslim masses they remained a live body with a vague
economic outlook. They played an important part later in
Muslim agitations in Indian States, notably Kashmir, where
economic ills and communalism were strangely and unhappily
mixed together. The defection of some of the leaders of the
Ahrar Party from the Congress was a serious loss for the Con*
gress in the Punjab. But we did not know of this at Karachi;
the realisation came slowly in later months. ‘This defection did
not, of course, come because of resentment at the election of
the Congress Working Committee. That was just a straw show-
ing the drift of the wind; the real causes lay deeper.

While we were all at Karachi news had come of the Hindu-
Muslim riots at Cawnpore, to be followed, soon after, by the
report of the murder of Ganesh Shankar Vidyarthi by a
frenzied mob of persons whom he was trying to help. Those
terrible and brutal riots were bad enough, but Ganeshji's death

170 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

brought them home to us as nothing else could have done.
He was known to thousands in that Congress camp, and to all
of us of the U.P. he was the dearest of comrades and friend,
brave and intrepid, far-sighted and full of wise counsel, never
downhearted, quietly working away and scorning publicity and
office and the limelight. In die pride of his youth he willingly
offered his life for the cause he loved and served, and foolish
hnnrU struck him down, and deprived Cawnpore and the pro-
vince of the brightest of their jewels. There was gloom over
our U.P. camp m Karachi when this news came; the glory
seemed to have departed. And yet there was pride in him,
that he had faced death so unfalteringly and died so gloriously.

XXXVI

A SOUTHERN HOLIDAY

My doctors urged me to take some rest and go for a change,
and I decided to spend a month in Ceylon. India, huge as the
country is, did not offer a real prospect of change or mental
rest, for wherever I might go, I would probably come across
political associates and the same problems would pursue me.
Ceylon was the nearest place within reach of India, and so to
Ceylon we went — Kamala, Indira and I. That was the first
holiday I had had since our return from Europe in 1927, the
first time since then that my wife and daughter and I holidayed
together peacefully with little to distract our attention. There
has been no repetition of that experience, and sometimes I
wonder if there will be any.

And yet we did not really have much rest in Ceylon, except
for two weeks at Nuwara Eliya. We were fairly overwhelmed
by the hospitality and fr iendlines^ of all classes of people there.
It was very pleasant to find all this goodwill, but it was often
embarrassing also. At Nuwara Eliya groups of labourers, tea-
garden workers and others would come daily, walking many
miles, bringing gracious gifts with them — wild flowers, vege-
tables, home-made butter. We could not, as a rule, even con-
verse together; we merely looked at each other and smiled.
Our litde house was full of these precious gifts of theirs, which
they had given out of their poverty, and we passed them on to
the local hospital and orphanages.

We visited many of the famous sights and historical ruins
of the island, and Buddhist monasteries, and the rich tropical
forests. At Anuradhapura, I liked greatly an old seated statue
of the Buddha. A year later, when I was in Dehra Dun Gaol, a
friend in Ceylon sent me a picture of this statue, and I kept it
on my little table in my ceu. It became a precious companion
for me, and the strong, calm features of Buddha’s statue
soothed me and gave me strength and helped me to overcome
many a period of depression.

Buddha has always had a great appeal for me. It is difficult
for me to analyse this appeal, but it is not a religious appeal,
and I am not interested in the dogmas that have grown up
round Buddhism. It is the personality that has drawn me. So
also the personality of Christ has attracted me greatly.

* 7 »

27* JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

I saw many Buddhist bhikkus (monks) in their monasteries
and on the highways, meeting with respect wherever they went.
The dominant expression of almost all of them was one of
peace and calm, a strange detachment from the cares of the
world. They did not have intellectual faces, as a rule, and
there was no trace of the fierce conflicts of the mind on their
countenances. Life seemed to be for them a smooth-flowing
river moving slowly to the great ocean. I looked at them with
some envy, with just a faint yearning for a haven, but I knew
well enough that my lot was a different one, cast in storms and
tempests. There was to be no haven for me, for the tempests
within me were as stormy as those outside. And if perchance I
found myself in a safe harbour, protected from the fury of the
winds, would I be contented or happy there?

For a little while the harbour was pleasant, and one could lie
down and dream and allow the soothing and enervating charm
of the tropics to steal over one. Ceylon fitted in with my mood
then, and the beauty of the island filled me with delight. Our
month of holiday was soon over, and it was with real regret
that we bade good-bye. So many memories come back to me
of the land and her people; they have been pleasant com-
panions during the long, empty days in prison. One little inci-
dent lingers in my memory; it was near Jaffna, I think. The
teachers and boys of a school stopped our car and said a few
words of greeting. The ardent, eager faces of the boys stood
out, and then one of their number came to me, shook hands
with me, and without question or argument, said : “ I will not
falter.” That bright young face with shining eyes, full of deter-
mination, is imprinted in my mind. I do not know who he was;
I have lost trace of him. But somehow I have the conviction
that he will remain true to his word and will not falter when he
has to face life’s difficult problems.

From Ceylon we went to South India, right to the southern
tip at Cape Comorin. Amazingly peaceful it was there. And
then through Travancore, Cochin, Malabar, Mysore, Hydera-
bad— mostly Indian States, some the most progressive of their
kind, some the most backward. Travancore and Cochin educa-
tionally far in advance of British India; Mysore probably ahead
industrially; Hyderabad almost a perfect feudal relic. We re*
ceived courtesy and welcome everywhere, both from the people
and the authorities, but behind that welcome I could sense
the anxiety of the latter lest our visit might lead the people
to think dangerously. Mysore and Travancore seemed to give
some civil liberty and opportunities of political work at the

A SOUTHERN HOLIDAY

*73

time; in Hyderabad even this was wholly absent; and I felt, in
spite of the courtesy that surrounded us, stifled and suffocated.
Latterly the Mysore and Tra van core governments have with-
drawn even the measure of civil liberty and political activity
that they had previously permitted.

In Bangalore, in the Mysore State, I had hoisted at a great
gathering a national flag on an enormous iron pole. Not long
after my departure this pole was broken up into bits, and the
Mysore government made the display of the flag an offence.
This ill-treatment and insult of the flag I had hoisted pained
me greatly.

In Travancore to-day even the Congress has been made an
unlawful association, and no one can enrol ordinary members
for it, although in British India it is now lawful since the with-
drawal of civil disobedience. Thus both Mysore and Travan-
core are crushing ordinary peaceful political activity and have
taken back some facilities they had previously allowed. They
have moved backwards. Hyderabad had no necessity for going
back or withdrawing facilities, for it had never moved forward
at all or given any facility of the kind. Political meetings are
unknown in Hyderabad, and even social and religious gather-
ings are looked upon with suspicion, and special permission
has to be taken for them. There are no newspapers worthy of
the name issued there, and, in order to prevent the germs of
corruption from coming from outside, a large number of news-
papers published in other parts of India are prevented entry.
So strict is this policy of exclusion that even Moderate journals
are excluded.

In Cochin we visited the quarter of the 'White Jews’, as
they are called, and saw one of the services in their old taber-
nacle. The little community is very ancient and very unique.
It is dwindling in numbers. The part of Cochin they live in,
we were told, resembled ancient Jerusalem. It certainly had an
ancient look about it.

We also visited, along the backwaters of Malabar, some of
the towns inhabited chiefly by Christians belonging to the
Syrian churches. Few people realise that Christianity came to
India as early as the first century after Christ, long before
Europe turned to it, and established a firm hold in South India.
Although these Christians have their religious head in Antioch
or somewhere in Syria, their Christianity is practically indi-
genous and has few outside contacts.

To my surprise, we also came across a colony of Nestorians in
the South; I was told by their bishop that there were ten thou-

274 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

sand of them. I had laboured under the impression that the Nea-
torians had long been absorbed in other sects, and I did not
know that they had ever flourished in India. But I was told
that at one time they had a fairly large following in India,
extending as far north as Benares.

We had gone to Hyderabad especially to pay a visit to Mrs.
Sarojini Naidu and her daughters, Padmaja and Leilamani.
During our stay with them a small purdanashin gathering of
women assembled at their house to meet my wife, and Kamala
apparently addressed them. Probably she spoke of women’s
struggle tor freedom against man-made laws and customs (a
favourite topic of hers) and urged the women not to be too
submissive to their menfolk. There was an interesting sequel
to this two or three weeks later, when a distracted husband
wrote to Kamala from Hyderabad and said that since her visit
to that city his wife had behaved strangely. She would not
listen to him and fall in with his wishes, as she used to, but
would argue with him and even adopt an aggressive attitude.

Seven weeks after we had sailed from Bombay for Ceylon we
were back in that city, and immediately I plunged again into
the whirlpool of Congress politics. There were meetings of the
Working Committee to consider vital problems — a rapidly-
changing and developing situation in India, the U.P. agrarian
impasse, the phenomenal growth of the * Redshirt ' movement
in the Frontier province under Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan’s
leadership, Bengal in an extreme state of tension and sup-
pressed anger and unrest, the ever-present communal problem,
and petty local conflicts, over a variety of issues, between Con-
gressmen and Government officials, involving mutual charges
of breaches of the Delhi Pact. And then there was the ever-
recurring question: was the Congress to be represented at the
second Round Table Conference? Should Mahatma Gandhi go
there?

XXXVII

FRICTION DURING TRUCE PERIOD

Should Gandhiji go to London for the Round Table Confer-
ence or not? Again and again the question arose, and there
was no definite answer. No one knew till the last moment — not
even the Congress Working Committee or Gandhiji himself.
For the answer depended on many things, and new happenings
were constantly giving a fresh turn to the situation. Behind
that question and answer lay real and difficult problems.

We were told repeatedly, on behalf of the British Govern-
ment and their friends, that the Round Table Conference had
already laid down the framework of the constitution, that the
principal lines of the picture had been drawn, and all that re-
mained was the filling of this picture. But the Congress did
not think so, and so far as it was concerned, the picture had to
be drawn or painted from the very beginning on an almost
blank canvas. It was true that by the Delhi agreement the
federal basis had been approved and the idea of safeguards
accepted. But a federation had long seemed to many of us the
best solution of the Indian constitutional problem, and our
approval of this idea did not mean our acceptance of the par-
ticular type of federation envisaged by the first Round Table
Conference. A federation was perfectly compatible with political
independence and social change. It was far more difficult to fit
in the idea of safeguards and, ordinarily, they would mean a
substantial diminution of sovereignty, but the qualifying phrase
“ in the interests of India ” helped us to get over this difficulty
to some extent at least, though not perhaps very successfully.
In any event, the Karachi Congress had made it clear that an
acceptable constitution must provide for full control of defence,
foreign affairs, and financial and economic policy, and an
examination of the question of India’s indebtedness to foreign
(meaning largely British) interests before liabilities were under-
taken; and the fundamental rights resolution had also indicated
some of the political and economic changes desired. All this
was incompatible with many of the Round Table Conference
decisions, as well as with the existing framework of administra-
tion in India.

The gulf between the Congress view-point and that of the
British Government was immense, and it seemed exceedingly

*75

276 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

unlikely that it could be bridged at that stage. Very few Con-
gressmen expected any measure of agreement between the
Congress and the Government at the Round Table Conference,
and even Gandhiji, optimistic as he always is, could not look
forward to much. And yet he was never hopeless and was deter-
mined to try to the very end. All of us felt that whether success
came or not, the effort had to be made, in continuation of the
Delhi agreement. But there were two vital considerations which
might have barred our participation in the second Round Table
Conference. We could only go if we had full freedom to place
our view-point in its entirety before the Round Table Confer-
ence, and were not prevented from doing so by being told that
the matter had already been decided, or for any other reason.
We could also be prevented from being represented at the
Round Table Conference by conditions in India. A situation
might have developed here which precipitated a conflict with
Government, or in which we had to face severe repression. If
this took place in India and our very house was on fire, it would
have been singularly out of place for any representative of ours
to ignore the fire and talk academically of constitutions and the
like in London.

The situation was developing swiftly in India. This was
noticeable all over the country, and especially so in Bengal, the
United Provinces, and the Frontier Province. In Bengal the
Delhi agreement had made little difference, and the tension con-
tinued and grew worse. Some civil disobedience prisoners were
discharged, but thousands of politicals, who were technically
not civil disobedience prisoners, remained in prison. The
detenus also continued in gaol or detention camps. Fresh arrests
were frequently made for 4 seditious * speeches or other political
activities, and generally it was felt that the Government offen-
sive had continued without any abatement. For the Congress,
the Bengal problem has been an extraordinarily difficult one
because of the existence of terrorism. Compared to the normal
Congress activities and civil disobedience, these terroristic activi-
ties were, in extent and importance, very little. But they made
a loud noise and attracted great attention. They also helped in
making it difficult for Congress work to function as in most
other provinces, for terrorism produced an atmosphere which
was not favourable to peaceful direct action. Inevitably they
invited the severest repression from the Government, and this
fell with considerable impartiality on terrorist and non-terrorist,
alike.

It was difficult for the police and the local executive

FRICTION DURING TRUCE PERIOD

*77

authorities not to make use of the special laws and ordinances
(meant for the terrorists) for Congressmen, labour and peasant
workers and others whose activities they disapproved of. It is
possible than the real offence of many of the detenus, kept now
for years without charge or trial or conviction, was not terror-
istic activity but other effective political activity. They have
been given no chance of proving or disproving anything, or
even of knowing what their sins are. They are not tried in
court, presumably because the police have not sufficient evi-
dence against them to secure a conviction, although it is well
known that the British-Indian laws for offences against the State
are amazingly thorough and comprehensive, and it is difficult
to escape from their close meshes. It often happens that a person
is acquitted by the law courts and is immediately arrested again
and thereafter treated as a detenu.

The Congress Working Committee felt very helpless before
this intricate problem of Bengal. They were continually op-
pressed by it, and some Bengal matter was always coming up
before them in different forms. They dealt with it as best they
could, but they knew well that they were not really tackling the
problem. So, rather weakly, they simply allowed matters to
drift there; it is a little difficult to say what else they could
have done, placed as they were. This attitude of the Working
Committee was much resented in Bengal, and an impression
grew up there that the Congress executive, as well as the other
provinces, were ignoring Bengal. In the hour of her trial
Bengal seemed to be deserted. This impression was entirely
wrong, for the whole of India was full of sympathy for the
people of Bengal, but it did not know how to translate this
sympathy into effective help. And, besides, every part of India
had to face its own troubles.

In the United Provinces the agrarian situation was becoming
worse. The Provincial Government temporised with the prob-
lem and delayed a decision about rent and revenue remissions,
and forcible collections were begun. There were wholesale eject-
ments and attachments. While we were in. Ceylon there had
taken place two or three agrarian riots when forcible attempts
were made to collect rents. The riots were petty in themselves,
but unhappily they resulted in the death of the landlord or his
agent. Gandhiji had gone to Naini Tal (also when I was in
Ceylon) to discuss the agrarian situation with the Governor of
the U.P., Sir Malcolm Hailey, without much result. When the
Government announced its remissions, they fell far short of ex-
pectations, and in the rural areas there was a continuous and an

278 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

ever-growing uproar. As the pressure of landlord plus govern-
ment grew on the peasantry, and thousands of tenants were
ejected from their holdings and had their little property seized,
a situation developed which in most other countries would have
resulted in a big peasant rising. I think it was very largely due
to the efforts of the Congress which kept the tenants from in-
dulging in violent activity. But there was an abundance of
violence against them.

There was one bright side to this agrarian upheaval and dis-
tress. Owing to the very low prices of agricultural produce, the
poorer classes, including the peasants, unless they were dis-
possessed, had more to eat than they had had for a long time.

In the Frontier Province, as in Bengal, the Delhi Pact brought
no peace. There was a permanent state of tension there, and
government was a military affair, with special laws and ordi-
nances and heavy punishments for trivial offences. To oppose
this state of affairs, Abdul Ghaffar Khan led a great agitation,
and he soon became a bugbear to the Government. From village
to village he went striding along, carrying his six-feet-three of
Pathan manhood, and establishing centres of the ' Redshirts ’.
Wherever he or his principal lieutenants went, they left a trail
of their ‘ Redshirts ’ behind, and the whole province was soon
covered by branches of the ‘ Khudai Khidmatgar ’. They were
thoroughly peaceful and, in spite of vague allegations, not a
single definite charge of violence against them has been estab-
lished. But whether they were peaceful or not, they had the
tradition of war and violence behind them, and they lived near
the turbulent frontier, and this rapid growth of a disciplined
movement, closely allied to the Indian national movement,
thoroughly upset the Government. I do not suppose they ever
believed in its professions of peace and non-violence. But even
if they had done so, their reactions to it would only have been
of fright and annoyance. It represented too much of actual
and potential power for them to view it with equanimity.

Of this great movement the unquestioned head was Khan
Abdul Ghaffar Khan — " Fakhr-e-Arghan ”, " Fakr-e-Pathan ”,
the ‘ Pride of the Pathans ', * Gandhi-e-Sarhad ', the ‘ Frontier
Gandhi ’, as he came to be known. He had attained an amazing
popularity in the Frontier Province by sheer dint of quiet,
persevering work, undaunted by difficulties or Government
action. He was, and is, no politician as politicians go; he knows
nothing of the tactics and manoeuvres of politics. A tall,
straight man, straight in body and mind, hatmg fuss and too
much talk, looking forward to freedom for his Frontier Province

FRICTION DURING TRUCE PERIOD 279

people within the framework of Indian freedom, but vague
about, and uninterested in, constitutions and legal talk. Action
was necessary to achieve anything, and Mahatma Gandhi had
taught a remarkable way of peaceful action which appealed to
him. For action, organisation was necessary; therefore, without
further argument or much drafting of rules for his organisation,
he started organising— and with remarkable success.

He was especially attracted to Gandhiji. At first his shyness
and desire to keep in the background made him keep away
from him. Later they had to meet to discuss various matters,
and their contacts grew. It was surprising how this Pathan
accepted the idea of non-violence, far more so in theory than
many of us. And it was because he believed in it that he
managed to impress his people with the importance of remain-
ing peaceful in spite of provocation. It would be absurd to say
that the people of the Frontier Province have given up all
thoughts of ever indulging in violence, just as it would be
absurd to say this of the people generally in any province. The
masses are moved by waves of emotion, and no one can predict
what they might do when so moved. But the self-discipline that
the frontier people showed in 1930 and subsequent years has
been something amazing.

Government officials and some of our very timid countrymen
look askance at the ‘ Frontier Gandhi '. They cannot take him
at his word, and can only think in terms of deep intrigue. But
the past years have brought him and other frontier comrades
very near to Congress workers in other parts of India, and
between them there has grown up a close comradeship and
mutual appreciation and regard. Abdul Ghaffar Khan has been
known and liked for many years in Congress circles. But he has
grown to be something more than an individual comrade; more
and more he has come to be, in the eyes of the rest of India,
the symbol of the courage and sacrifice of a gallant and indo-
mitable people, comrades of ours in a common struggle.

Long before I had heard of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, 1 knew his
brother. Dr. Khan Sahib. He was a student at St. Thomas’s
Hospital in London when I was at Cambridge, and later, when
I was eating my Bar dinners at the Inner Temple he and I
became close friends, and hardly a day went by, when I was in
London, when we did not meet. I returned to India, leaving
him in England, and he stayed on for many more years, serving
as a doctor in war-time. I saw him next in Naini Prison.

The frontier ‘ Redshirts ’ co-operated with the Congress, but
they were an organisation apart. It was a peculiar position.

280 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

The real connecting link was Abdul GhafTar Khan. This
question was fully considered by the Working Committee in
consultation with the Frontier Province leaders in the summer
of 1931, and it was decided to absorb the ‘Redshirts’ into the
Congress. The ‘ Redshirt ’ movement thus became part of the
Congress organisation.

It was Gandhiji’s wish to go to the Frontier Province immedi-
ately after the Karachi Congress, but the Government did not
encourage this at all. Repeatedly, in later months, when
Government officials complained of the doings of the 'Red-
shirts’, he pressed to be allowed to go there to find out for
himself, but to no purpose. Nor was my going there approved.
In view of the Delhi agreement, it was not considered desirable
by us to enter the Frontier Province against the declared wish
of the Government.

Yet another of the problems before the Working Committee
was the communal problem. There was nothing new about this,
although it had a way of reappearing in novel and fantastic
attire. The Round Table Conference gave it an added impor-
tance at the time, as it was obvious that the British Government
would keep it in the forefront and subordinate all other issues
to it. The members of the Conference, all nominees of the
Government, had been mainly chosen in order to give impor-
tance to the communal and sectional interests, and to lay stress
on these divergences rather than on the common interests. The
Government had even refused, pointedly and aggressively, to
nominate any leader of the Nationalist Muslims. Gandhiji felt
that if the Conference, at the instance of the British Govern-
ment, became entangled in the communal issue right at the
beginning, the real political and economic issues would not get
proper consideration. Under these circumstances, his going to
the Conference would be of little use. He put it to the Working
Committee, therefore, that he should only go to London if some
understanding on the communal issue was previously arrived
at between tne parties concerned. His instinct was perfectly
justified, but nevertheless the Committee overruled him and
decided that he must not refuse to go merely on the ground
that we had failed to solve the communal problem. An attempt
was made by the Committee, in consultation with representa-
tives of various communities, to put forward a proposed solu-
tion. This had no great success.

These were some of the major problems before us during that
summer of 1931, besides a large number of minor issues. From
all over the country we were continually receiving complaints

FRICTION DURING TRUCE PERIOD

38l

from local Congress Committees pointing out breaches of the
Delhi Pact by local officials. The more important of these were
forwarded by us to the Government, which, in its turn, brought
charges against Congressmen of violation of the Pact. So
charges and counter-charges were made, and later they were
published in the Press. Needless to say, this did not result in
the improvement of the relations between the Congress and
the Government.

And yet this friction on petty matters was by itself of no
great importance. Its importance lay in its revealing the
development of a more fundamental conflict, something which
did not depend on individuals but arose from the very nature
of our national struggle and the want of equilibrium of our
agrarian economy, something that could not be liquidated or
compromised away without a basic change. Our national move-
ment had originally begun because of the desire of our upper
middle classes to find means of self-expression and self-growth,
and behind it there was the political and economic urge. It
spread to the lower middle classes and became a power in the
land; and then it began to stir the rural masses who were find-
ing it more and more difficult to keep up, as a whole, even
their miserable rock-bottom standard of living. The old self-
sufficient village economy had long ceased to exist. Auxiliary
cottage industries, ancillary to agriculture, which had relieved
somewhat the burden on the land, had died off, partly because
of State policy, but largely because they could not compete with
the rising machine industry. The burden on land grew and the
growth of Indian industry was too slow to make much differ-
ence to this. Ill-equipped and almost unawares, the overbur-
dened village was thrown into the world market and was tossed
about hither and thither. It could not compete on even terms.
It was backward in its methods of production, and its land
system, resulting in a progressive fragmentation of holdings,
made radical improvement impossible. So the agricultural
classes, both landlords and tenants, went downhill, except
during brief periods of boom. The landlords ’tried to pass on
the burden to their tenantry, and the growing pauperisation of
the peasantry — both the petty landholders and the tenants —
drew them to the national movement. The agricultural prole-
tariat, the large numbers of landless labourers in rural areas,
were also attracted; and for all these rural classes ‘nationalism’
or ‘ swaraj ' meant fundamental changes in the land system,
which would relieve or lessen their burdens and provide land
for the landless. These desires found no clear expression either

282 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

in the peasantry or in the middle-class leaders of the national
movement.

The Civil Disobedience movement of 1930 happened to fit in
unbeknown to its own leaders at first, with the great world
slump in industry and agriculture. The rural masses were
powerfully affected by thfe slump, and they turned to the Con-
gress and civil disobedience. For them it was not a matter
of a fine constitution drawn up in London or elsewhere,
but of a basic change in the land system, especially in the
zamindari areas. The zamindari system, indeed, seemed to
have outlived its day and had no stability left in it. But the
British Government, situated as it was, could not venture to
undertake a radical change of this land system. Even when
it had appointed the Royal Agricultural Commission, the terms
of reference to it barred a discussion of the question of owner-
ship of land or the system of land tenure.

Thus the conflict lay in the very nature of things in India
then, and it could not be charmed away by phrases or com-
promises. Only a solution of the basic problem of land (not to
mention other vital national issues) could resolve that conflict.
And of this solution through the instrumentality of the British
Government there was no possibility. Temporary measures
might alleviate the distress for a while; severe repression might
frighten and prevent public expression of it; but neither helped
in the solution of the problem.

The British Government, like most governments I suppose,
has an idea that much of the trouble in India is due to * agita-
tors*. It is a singularly inept notion. India has had a great
leader during the past fifteen years who has won the affection
and even adoration of her millions, and has seemed to impose
his will on her in many ways. He has played a vitally impor-
tant part in her recent history, and yet more important than
he were the people themselves who seemed to follow blindly
his behests. The people were the principal actors, and behind
them, pushing them on, were great historical urges which pre-
pared them and made them ready to listen to their leader’s
piping. But for that historical setting and political and social
urges, no leaders or agitators could have inspired them to
action. It was Gandhiji’s chief virtue as a leader that he could
instinctively feel the pulse of the people and know when con-
ditions were ripe for growth and action.

In 1930 the national movement in India fitted in for a while
with the growing social forces of the country, and because of
this a great power came to it, a sense of reality, as if it was

FRICTION DURING TRUCE PERIOD 283

indeed marching step by step with history. The Congress
represented that national movement, and this power and
strength were reflected in the growth of Congress prestige.
This was something vague, incalculable, indefinable, but never-
theless very much present. The peasantry, of course, turned to
the Congress and gave it its real strength; the lower middle-class
formed the backbone of its fighting ranks. Even the upper
bourgeoisie, troubled by this new atmosphere, thought it safer
to be friendly with the Congress. The great majority of the
textile mills in India signed undertakings prescribed by the
Congress, and were afraid of doing things which might bring on
them the displeasure of the Congress. While people argued fine
legal points in London at the first R.T.C., the reality of power
seemed to be slowly and imperceptibly flowing towards the
Congress as representing the people. This illusion grew even
after the Delhi Pact, not because of vainglorious speeches, but
because of the events of 1930 and after. Indeed, probably the
persons who were most conscious of the difficulties and dangers
ahead were the Congress leaders, and they took every care not
to minimise them.

This vague sense of a dual authority growing in the country
was naturally most irritating to the Government. It had no
real basis in fact, as physical power rested completely with the
authorities, but that it existed psychologically there was no
doubt. For an authoritarian, irremovable government this was
an impossible situation, and it was this subtle atmosphere that
really got on their nerves, and not a few odd village speeches or
processions of which they complained later. A clash, therefore,
seemed inevitable; for the Congress could hardly commit
voluntary hara-kiri, and the Government could not tolerate this
atmosphere of duality, and was bent on crushing the Congress.
This clash was deferred because of the second Round Table
Conference. For some reason or other the British Government
was very keen on having Gandhiji in London, and avoided, as
far as possible, doing anything to prevent this.

And yet the sense of conflict grew, and We could feel the
hardening on the side of Government. Soon after the Delhi
Pact, Lord Irwin had left India and Lord Willingdon had come
in his place as Viceroy. A legend grew up that tne new Viceroy
was a hard and stem person and not so amenable to compromise
as his predecessor. Many of our politicians have inherited a
‘ liberal ’ habit of thinking of politics in terms of persons rather
than of principles. They do not realise that the broad imperial
policy of the British Government does not depend on the

284 JAWAHAKLAL NEHRU

personal views of the Viceroys. The change of Viceroys,
therefore, did not and could not make any difference, but,
as it happened, the policy of Government gradually changed
owing to the development of the situation. The Civil Service
hierarchy had not approved of pacts and dealings with the
Congress; all their training and authoritarian conceptions of
government were opposed to this. They had an idea that they
had added to the Congress influence and Gandhiji’s prestige by
dealing with him almost as an equal and it was about time
that he was brought down a peg or two. The notion was a
very foolish one, but then the Indian Civil Service is not known
for the originality of its conceptions. Whatever the reason, the
Government stiffened its back and tightened its hold, and it
seemed to tell us, in the words of the old prophet: My little
finger is thicker than my father’s loins. Whereas he chastised
you with whips, I will chastise you with scorpions.

But the time for chastisement was not yet. If possible the
Congress was to be represented at the second Round Table Con-
ference. Twice Gandniji went to Simla to have long conversa-
tions with the Viceroy and other officials. They discussed many
of the points at issue, especially the 4 Redshirt ’ movement in
the Frontier and U.P. Agrarian situation, the two prob-
lems, apart from Bengal, which seemed to be worrying the
Government most.

Gandhiji had sent for me from Simla, and I had occasion to
meet some of the Government of India officials also. My talks
were limited to the U.P. They were frank talks, and the real
conflicts, which lay behind the petty charges and counter-
charges, were discussed. I remember being told that the
Government had been in a position in February 1931 to crush
the Civil Disobedience movement absolutely within three
months at the most. They had perfected their machinery of
repression and only a push had to be given to it; a button
pressed. But preferring, if possible, a settlement by agreement
to one imposed by force, they had decided to try the experi-
ment of mutual talks which had led to the Delhi agreement.
If the agreement had not come off, the button was always
there, and could have been pressed at a moment’s notice. And
there seemed to be a hint that the button might have to be
pressed in the not distant future if we did not behave. It was
all said very courteously and very frankly, and both of us knew
that, quite apart from us and whatever we might say or do,
conflict was inevitable.

Another high official paid a compliment to the Congress. We

FRICTION DURING TRUCE PERIOD 285

were for the moment discussing wider problems of a non-
political nature, and he told me that, politics apart, the Con-
gress had done a great service to India. The usual charge
brought against Indians was that they were not good organisers,
but during 1930 the Congress had done a wonderful bit of
organising, despite enormous difficulties and opposition.

Gandhiji’s first visit to Simla was inconclusive in so far as the
question of going to the Round Table Conference was con-
cerned. The second visit took place in the last week of August.
A final decision had to be taken one way or the other, but still
he found it difficult to make up his mind to leave India. In
Bengal, in the Frontier Province, and in the U.P., he saw
trouble ahead, and he did not want to go unless he had some
assurance of peace in India. At last some kind of an agree-
ment was arrived at with the Government embodied in a
statement and some letters that were exchanged. This was
done at the very last moment to enable him to travel by the
liner that was carrying the delegates to the R.T.C. Indeed, it
was after the last moment, in a sense, as the last train had gone.
A special train from Simla to Kalka was arranged, and other
trains were delayed to make the connections.

I accompanied him from Simla to Bombay, and there, one
bright morning towards the end of August, I waved good-bye
to him as he was carried away to the Arabian Sea and the
far West. That was my last glimpse of him for two years.

XXXVIII

THE ROUND TABLE CONFERENCE

In a recent book an English journalist, who claims to have
seen a great deal of Mr. Gandhi both in India and at the
Round Table Conference in London, writes as follows :

“The leaders on board the Mooltan knew that there was a
conspiracy against Mr. Gandhi within the Congress Working
Committee. They knew that, when the time was ripe, Congress
might expel him. But Congress, by expelling Mr. Gandhi, would
expel in all probability half its members; and that was the half
Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and Mr. Jayakar wished to attach to the
Liberal cause. They never disguised the fact that Mr. Gandhi
was, in their own words, 4 muddle-headed \ It was worth
winning a 4 muddle-headed * leader when he could bring with
him a million 4 muddle-headed ’ followers.” 1

I do not know how far this quotation represents the views
of Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru, Mr. Jayakar, or the other members of
the R.T.C. on their way to London in 1931. But it does seem
to me an astonishing thing that any person, journalist or
4 leader with the least acquaintance with Indian politics,
could have made such a statement. I was astounded to read it;
I had not heard of it previously even as a suggestion, though
that is not difficult to understand, as I have been in prison for
most of the time since then.

Who were the conspirators and what were they after? It was
sometimes stated that the President, Vallabhbhai Patel, and I

1 From Glorney Bolton's The Tragedy of Gandhi . I have taken
this extract from a review of the book, as I have had no opportunity
so far of reading the book itself. I hope that I am not doing an
injustice thereby to the author or to the persons mentioned in the
quotation. . . . Since writing the above I have read the book. Many
of the statements of Mr. Bolton and the inferences he draws are, to
my thinking, wholly unjustified. There are also a number of errors
of fact, especially in regard to what the Working Committee did or
did not do during the Delhi Pact negotiations and after. There is
also a curious assumption that Mr. Vallabhbhai Patel got the Con-

g ress presidentship m 1931, and thereby the leadership of the
ongress, in rivalry with Mr. Gandhi. As a matter of fact, during
the last fifteen years Mr. Gandhi has been a far bigger person in the
Congress (and, of course, in the country) than any Congress Presi-

*86

THE ROUND TABLE CONFERENCE

287

were among the extremists of the Working Committee, and,
therefore, I suppose, we must have been numbered among the
leaders of the conspiracy. Perhap in the whole of India
Gandhiji has had no more loyal colleague than Vallabhbhai, a
man strong and unbending in his work, and yet devoted to
him personally and to his ideals and policy. I could not claim
to have accepted these ideals in the same way, but I had had
the privilege of working with Gandhiji in the closest associa-
tion, and the idea of intriguing against him in any way is
a monstrous one. Indeed, that applied to the whole Working
Committee. That Committee was practically his creation; he
had nominated it, in consultation with a few colleagues, and
the election itself was a formal matter. The backbone of the
Committee consisted of members who had served on it for
many years and had come to be considered almost as per-
manent members. There were political differences amongst
them, differences in outlook and in temper; but years of associa-
tion, the joint shouldering of burdens and the facing of com-
mon perils, had welded them together. Between them had

dent could possibly be. He has been the president-maker, and
invariably his suggestions have been followed. Repeatedly he refused
to preside and preferred that some of his colleagues and lieutenants
should do so. I became president of the Congress entirely because
of him. He had actually been elected, but he withdrew and forced
my election. Mr. Vallabhbhai Patel's election was not normal. We
had just come out of prison, and the Congress Committees were still
illegal bodies, and could not function in the ordinary way. The
Working Committee, therefore, took it upon itself to elect the Presi-
dent of the Karachi Congress. The whole Committee, including
Mr. Vallabhbhai Patel, begged Mr. Gandhi to accept the president-
ship and thus to be the titiuar head, as he was the real head, of the
Congress during the coming critical year. He would not agree, and
insisted on Mr. Vallabhbhai Patel accepting it. I remember that it
was pointed out to him at the time that he wanted to be Mussolini
all the time while others were made by him temporary kings and
figureheads.

It is not possible to deal with various other misapprehensions of
Mr. Bolton in a footnote. One somewhat personal matter I should,
however, like to refer to. He seems to be convinced that the turning-
point in my father’s political career was his non-election by a
European club, and that this led him not only to radical ways but
to an avoidance of English society. This story, though often re-

r tated, is wholly untrue. The real facts have little importance, but
am giving them here to clear up this mystery. In his early days
at the Bar, he became a favourite of Sir John Edge, who was then

288

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

grown up friendship and camaraderie and regard for each other.
They formed not a coalition but an organic unity, and it was
inconceivable for any one to intrigue against the other.
Gandhiji dominated the Committee, and every one looked to
him for guidance. That had been so for many years; it was
even more marked in 1931 after the great success that had
attended our struggle in 1930.

What could have been the purpose of the 4 extremists ' in the
Working Committee to try to * expel' him? Perhaps it was
thought that he was considered too compromising a person
and was, therefore, an encumbrance. But without him where
was the struggle, where was Civil Disobedience and Satyagraha?
He was part of the living movement; indeed, he was the move-
ment itself. So -far as that struggle was concerned everything
depended on him. The national struggle, of course, was not
his creation, nor did it depend on any individual; it had deeper
roots. But that particular phase of the struggle, of which civil
disobedience was the symbol, was singularly dependent on
him. Parting with him meant winding up that movement and
building anew on fresh foundations. That would have been a
difficult enough proposition at any time; in 1931 it was un-
thinkable for any one.

It is amusing to think how, according to some people, some of

the Chief Justice of the Allahabad High Court. Sir John suggested
to him that he should join the Allahabad (European) Club, and
wanted to propose his name himself. My father thanked him for
his kindly suggestion, but pointed out that there was bound to be
trouble, as many English people would object to him as an Indian
and might vote against him. Any subaltern could blackball him,
and he would rather not offer himself for election under these cir-
cumstances. Sir John even suggested that he would get the Brigadier-
General commanding the Allahabad area to second my father's
name. Ultimately, however, the matter dropped, and my father's
name was not proposed, as he made it clear that he was not prepared
to risk an insult. This incident, far from embittering him against
English people, drew him to Sir John Edge, and most of his English
friendships and connections grew up in subsequent years. This
occurred in the 'nineties, and it was nearly a quarter of a century
later that he became the radical politician and non-co-operator.. The
change was not sudden, but the Punjab Martial Law hurried up
the process, and Mr. Gandhi’s influence at the right moment made
a difference. Even then he had no deliberate intention of giving up
social contacts with Englishmen. But where Englishmen arc largely
officials, non-co-operation and civil disobedience inevitably prevent
such contacts.

THE ROUND TABLE CONFERENCE

289

us were conspiring to drive him out of the Congress in 1931.
Why should we conspire when a gentle hint to him was
sufficient? A mere suggestion from him that he would retire
has always been enough to upset the Working Committee as
well as the country. He was so much part of our struggle that
the very thought that he might leave us was unbearable. We
hesitated to send him to London, because in his absence the
burden in India would fall on us, and we did not welcome the
prospect. We were so used to shifting it on to his shoulders.
For many of us, in the Working Committee and outside, the
bonds that tied us to Gandhiji were such that even failure with
him seemed preferable to the winning of some temporary ad-
vantage without him.

Whether Gandhiji is ‘ muddle-headed ’ or not we can leave to
our Liberal friends to decide. It is undoubtedly true that his
politics are sometimes very metaphysical and difficult to under-
stand. But he had shown himself a man of action, a man of
wonderful courage, and a man who could often deliver the
goods; and if ‘ muddle-headedness ’ yields such practical results
perhaps it compares not unfavourably with the ‘practical
politics ’ that begin and end in the study and in select circles.
True, his millions of followers were ‘muddle-headed*. They
knew nothing of politics and constitutions; they could think
only in terms of their human needs, of food and shelter and
clothing and land.

It has always seemed to me very remarkable how eminent
foreign journalists, trained in the observation of human nature,
go wrong in India. Is it because of the ineradicable impression
of their childhood that the East is utterly different and cannot
be judged by ordinary standards? Or is it, in the case of Eng-
lishmen, the kink of empire that governs their vision and
distorts their view? They will believe almost anything, however
unlikely it might be, without any surprise, for everything is
deemed to be possible in the mysterious East. They publish
books sometimes containing able surveys an$l acute bits of
observation and, in between, amazing lapses.

I remember reading, just on the eve of Gandhiji’s departure
for Europe in 1931, an article by a well-known Paris correspon-
dent (at the time) of a London newspaper. The article was about
India, and in the course of it he referred to an incident which,
according to him, took place in 1921 during the non-co-operation
days when the Prince of Wales visited India. It was stated that
in some place (probably it was Delhi) Mahatma Gandhi burst in
dramatically and unannounced on the Prince, fell on his knees

29O JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

clasped the Prince’s feet and, weeping copiously, begged him to
give peace to this unhappy land. None of us, not even Gandhiji,
had heard of this remarkable story, and I wrote to the journalist
pointing this out to him. He expressed regret, but added that
he had got it from a reliable source. What astonished me was
that he should have given credence, without any attempt at
an enquiry, to a story on the face of it highly improbable, and
which no one who knew anything about Mr. Gandhi, the Con-
gress, or India could believe. It is, unhappily, true that there
are many Englishmen in India who, in spite of long residence,
know nothing about the country or about the Congress or about
Gandhiji. The story was an incredible and ridiculous one, com-
parable perhaps to a fanciful account of the Archbishop
of Canterbury suddenly bursting in upon Mussolini, stand-
ing on his head, and waving his legs in the air in token of
greeting.

A recent report in a newspaper gives another type of
story. It is stated that Gandhiji has got huge funds, running
into millions of pounds, secretly deposited with friends, and
the Congress is after this money. It (the Congress) is afraid that
if Gandhiji retires from its membership it might lose these
hoards. The story is on the face of it absurd, for he never keeps
funds personally or secretly, and whatever he has collected he
hands over to a public organisation. He has the bania’s instinct
for careful accounting, and all his collections are publicly
audited.

This rumour is probably based on the story of the famous
crore of rupees which were collected by the Congress in 1921.
This sum, which sounds big but was not much if spread out
all over India, was utilised for national universities and schools,
promotion of cottage industries and especially khaddar, un-
touchability work and a variety of other constructive schemes.
Much of it was tied up in ear-marked funds, which still exist,
and are used for their special purposes. The rest of the col-
lections were left with the local committees, and spent for
Congress organisational and political work. The non-co-
operation movement was financed by it, as well as Congress
work for a few years after. We have been taught by Gandhiji,
as well as by the poverty of the country, to carry on our
political -.movement with exceedingly limited means. Most of
our work has been wholly voluntary, and where payment has
been made it has been on a starvation scale. The best of our
workers, university graduates with families to support, have been
paid less than the unemployment allowance in England. I

THE ROUND TABLE CONFERENCE 391

doubt if any political or labour movement on a large scale
has. been run anywhere with so little money as the Congress
movement during the last fifteen years. And all Congress
funds and accounts have been publicly audited from year to
year, no part of them being secret, except during the civil
disobedience periods, when the Congress was an illegal organisa-
tion.

Gandhiji had gone to London as the sole representative of
the Congress to the Round Table Conference. We had decided,
after long debate, not to have additional representatives. Partly
this was due to our desire to have our best men in India at
a very critical time, when the most tactful handling of the
situation was necessary. We felt that, in spite of the R.T.C.
meeting in London, the centre of gravity lay in India, and
developments in India would inevitably have their reactions in
London. We wanted to check untoward developments, and to
keep our organisation in proper condition. This was, however,
not the real reason for our sending only one representative. If
we had thought it necessary and advisable, we would certainly
have sent others also. Deliberately we refrained from doing
so.

We were not joining the Round Table Conference to talk
interminably about the petty details of a constitution. We
were not interested in those details at that stage, and they could
only be considered when some agreement on fundamental
matters had been arrived at with the British Government. The
real question was how much power was to be transferred to
a democratic India. Any solicitor almost could do the drafting
and the settlement of details afterwards. The Congress position
was a fairly simple one on these basic matters, and there was
no great room for argument over it. It seemed to us that the
dignified course would be for one representative, and that one
our leader, to go and explain that position, to show the essential
reasonableness of it and the inevitability of it, and to try to
win over, if he could, the British Government *to it. That was
very difficult, we knew; hardly possible as matters stood then,
but then we had no other alternative. We could not give up
that position and our principles and ideals, to which we were
pledged and in which we firmly believed. If by a strange
chance a basis of agreement was round on those fundamentals,
the rest followed easily enough. Indeed, it had been settled
between us that, in case of such an agreement, Gandhiji would
immediately summon to London some or even all the members
of the Working Committee, so that we could then share the

292 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

work of detailed negotiation. We were to keep ourselves in
readiness for that summons, and even travel by air if necessary.
We could thus be with him within ten days of the call.

But if there was 'no initial agreement on fundamentals, then
the question of further and detailed negotiations did not arise,
nor was it necessary for additional Congress representatives to
go to the R.T.C. So we decided to send Gandhiji only. One
other member of the Working Committee, Mrs. Sarojini
Naidu, also attended the R.T.C., but she did not do so as a
Congress representative. She was invited as a representative of
Indian womanhood, and the Working Committee permitted
her to go as such.

The British Government had, however, no intention of falling
in with our wishes in the matter. Their policy was to postpone
the consideration of fundamental questions and to make the
Conference exhaust itself, more or less, on minor and immaterial
matters. Even when major matters were considered, the
Government held its hand, refused to commit itself, and
promised to express its opinion after mature consideration
later on. Their trump card was, of course, the communal issue
and they played it for all it was worth. It dominated the Con-
ference.

The great majority of the Indian members of the Conference
fell in, most of them willingly, some unwillingly, with this
official manoeuvring. They were a motley assembly. Few of
them represented any but themselves. Some were able and
respected; of many others this could not be said. As a whole
they represented, politically and socially, the most reactionary
elements in India. So backward and reactionary were they that
the Indian Liberals, so very moderate and cautious in India,
shone as progressives in their company. They represented
groups of vested interests in India who were tied up with
British imperialism, and looked to it for advancement or pro-
tection. The most prominent representation came from various
4 minority * and 4 majority ’ groups on the communal issue. This
consisted of a number of upper-class irreconcilables who, it was
notorious, could never agree amongst themselves. Politically
they were thorough reactionaries, and their sole interest seemed
to be to gain a communal advantage, even though that might
involve 'a surrender of political advance. Indeed they pro-
claimed that they would not agree to having any greater
measure of political freedom unless and until their communal
demands were satisfied. That was an extraordinary sight, and
it revealed with painful clarity the depths to which a subject

the round table conference 293

people could fall, and how they could be made pawns in the
imperialist game. It was true that the Indian people could not
be said to be represented by that crowd of highnesses, lords,
knights and others of high degree. The members of the Round
Table Conference had been nominated by the British Govern-
ment, and, from its own point of view, the Government had
chosen well. And yet the mere fact that the British authorities
could use and exploit us so, showed the weakness of our people,
and the strange facility with which they could be side-tracked
and made to undo each other's efforts. Our uppeL classes were
still wrapped up in the ideology of our imperialist rulers, and
played their game. Was it because they did not see through
it? Or did they, knowing its real significance, accept it
knowingly because of their tear of democracy and freedom in
India?

It was fitting that in this assembly of vested interests— im-
perialist, feudal, financial, industrial, religious, communal — the
leadership of the British Indian delegation should usually fall
to the Aga Khan, who in his own person happened to combine
all these interests in some degree. Closely associated as he has
been with British imperialism and the British ruling class for
over a generation, residing chiefly in England, he could
thoroughly appreciate and represent our rulers' interests and
view-point. He would have been an able representative of
Imperialist England at that Round Table Conference. The
irony of it was that he was supposed to represent India.

The scales were terribly loaded against us at that Conference
and, little as we expected from it, we watched its proceedings
with amazement and ever-growing disgust. We saw the pitiful
and absurdly inadequate attempts to scratch the surface of
national and economic problems, the pacts and intrigues and
manoeuvres, the joining of hands of some of our own country-
men with the most reactionary elements of the British Conser-
vative Party, the endless talk over petty issues, the deliberate
shelving of all that really mattered, the continuous playing into
the hands of the big vested interests and Especially British
imperialism, the mutual squabbles, varied by feasting and
mutual admiration. It was all jobbery— big jobs, little jobs,
jobs and seats for the Hindus, for the Muslims, for the Sikhs,
for the Anglo-Indians, for the Europeans; but all jobs for the
upper classes, the masses had no look-in. Opportunism was
rampant, and different groups seemed to prowl about like
hungry wolves waiting for their prey— the spoils under the new
constitution. The very conception of freedom had taken the

304 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

as it could, by substantial rent remissions. It was not easy to
have it both ways. Between the State and the cultivator stood
the zamindar, from the economic point of view a useless and
unnecessary addition, and it might have been possible to pro-
tect and help both the State and the cultivator at his expense.
But the British Government, constituted as it is, could not for
political reasons alienate'one of the few classes which clung on
to it.

At last the Provincial Government announced the remissions
both for the landlords and the tenants. These were based on
some complicated system, and it was not easy at first to make
out what they were. It was clear, however, that they were far
from enough. Besides, they related to the current demand and
said nothing at all about the arrears due from the tenant or his
debts. It was obvious that if the tenant was not in a position to
pay the rent for the current half-year, much less could he pay
arrears for past years or old debts. As a rule, it was the land-
lord’s custom to credit all realisations to past arrears. This pro-
cedure was dangerous from the tenant’s point of view, for he
could always be proceeded against and dispossessed of his land
on the ground of non-payment of some part of the amount due
from him.

The Provincial Congress Executive was put in an extraordi-
narily difficult position. We were convinced that the tenants
were being treated very unfairly and yet we were helpless in
the matter. We did not want to take the responsibility of advis-
ing the tenants not to pay. We went on repeating that they
should pay as much as they could and generally sympathising
with them in their misfortunes and trying to hearten them. We
agreed with them that the demand, even after the remissions,
was too much for them.

The machinery of coercion, legal as well as illegal, began to
move. Ejectment suits brought against thousands, attachments
of cows, bullocks, personal property, beatings by agents of
landlords. Large numbers of tenants paid part of the demand;
according to them, this was as much as they could pay then.
Very probably in some instances they could have paid more,
but it was quite obvious that for the great majority this was a
heavy burden. These part payments did not save them. The
steam-roller of the law went on advancing, pitilessly crushing
all that came in its way. Ejectment suits were decreed, even
though part payment had taken place; attachments and sale of
cattle and personal property continued. The tenants could not
hrive been worse oft if they had not paid at all. Indeed, they

AGRARIAN TROUBLES IN THE UNITED PROVINCES 305

would have been slightly better off, for they would have saved
that much money at least.

They came to us in large numbers, complaining bitterly, tell-
ing us that they had followed our advice and paid what they
could, and this was the consequence. In Allahabad district
alone many thousands had been dispossessed, and some pro-
ceeding or other had been launched against many thousands of
others. The District Congress Committee office was surrounded
all day by a distraught crowd. My own house was equally be-
sieged, and often I felt like running away and hiding myself
somewhere, anywhere, to escape this dreadful predicament.
Many tenants who came to us bore marks of injury, said to
have been inflicted by zamindars’ agents. We had them treated
in hospital. What could they do? What could we do? We sent
long letters to the U.P. Government. Our Committee had ap-
pointed Govind Ballabh Pant as our liaison officer to keep m
touch with the Provincial Government at Naini Tal or Luck-
now. He was constantly writing to the Government. Our pro-
vincial President, Tasadduq A. K. Sherwani, also wrote from
time to time, and so did I.

Another difficulty arose with the approach of the monsoon
in June-July. That was the tilling and sowing season. Were the
tenants, who had been dispossessed, to sit idle and watch their
land lie fallow in front of them? This was very difficult for a
peasant; it went against the grain. The dispossession in many
cases was legal and technical and not an actual moving away.
A court decree had been passed and nothing else had been
done. Or were they to plough the land and thereby commit an
offence of criminal trespass, perhaps leading to a petty riot? To
watch others till their old land was also very difficult for the
peasants to tolerate. They came to us for advice. What advice
could we give?

I put this difficulty to a high official in the Government of
India, when I visited Simla with Gandhiji during that summer,
and I asked him what advice he would give if fie was in our
position. His answer was a revealing one. He said that if a
peasant who had been dispossessed asked him this question he
would simply refuse to answer him ! Even he was not prepared
to tell the peasant straight off not to till his land, although he
had been legally dispossessed. It was easy for him, sitting on
the Simla heights, to pass orders on files as if he was dealing
with an abstract problem in mathematics. He, or the provincial
bosses at Naini Tal, were not brought into touch with the
human factor, nor did they see the human misery involved.

L

30 6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

We were also told at Simla that we should give only one
advice to the peasantry : that they should pay the full demand
or as much as they could. We should in fact act almost as the
agents of the landlords. As a matter of fact we had said some*
thing like it when we asked them to pay as much as they
could. We had added no doubt that they should not sell up
their cattle or incur addirional debt. And we had seen the
result.

It was a terrible summer for all of us, and the strain of it
was great. The Indian peasant has an amazing capacity to bear
misfortune, and he has always had more than his share of it —
famine, flood, disease, and continuous grinding poverty— and
when he could endure it no longer, he would quietly and almost
uncomplainingly lie down in his thousands or millions and die.
That was his way of escape. Nothing happened in 1931 to
compare with the periodical great misfortunes that had visited
him. But, somehow, the events of 1931 did not seem to him
part of Nature’s inscrutable plans, and, therefore, to be patiently
endured; they were the work of man, he thought, and so he
resented them. His new political education was bearing fhiit.
For us, too, these happenings of 1931 were especially painful
because we held ourselves partly responsible for them. Had not
the peasants largely followed our advice in the matter? And
yet I am quite convinced that, but for our constant help, the con-
dition of the peasantry would have been far worse. We held
them together and they remained a force to be reckoned with,
and because of this they obtained greater remissions than they
otherwise would have done. Even the coercion and ill-treatment
to which they were subjected, bad as it was, was not unusual for
these unhappy people. The difference was partly one of degree
(as there was much more of it now) and partly a question of
publicity. Ordinarily, ill-treatment and even torture of a tenant
by a zamindar’s agent in a village is almost taken for granted,
and few persons outside that area hear of it, unless the victim
dies. It was different now because of our organisation and the
new consciousness of the peasantry which made them hang
together and report all mishaps to the Congress offices.

As the summer advanced, the attempts at forcible collections
toned down and coercive proceedings lessened. What troubled
us now was the question of the great number of the ejected
tenants. What was to be done to them? We were pressing the
Government to help them to get back their holdings, whidi, in
dhe majority of cases, were lying vacant. More important still
was the question of the future. The remissions that had been

AGRARIAN TROUBLES IN THE UNITES PROVINCES 307

so far granted were for the past season only, and nothing had
yet been decided about the future. From October onwards the
season for the next collections would begin. What would
happen then? Would we have to go through the same terrible
round again? The Provincial Government appointed a small
committee, consisting of its own officials and some zamindar
members of the local Council, to consider this. There was no
representative of the peasantry on it. At the last moment, when
the Committee had actually begun its work, Govind Ballabh
Pant was asked by Government to join it on our behalf. He did
not think it worth while to join at that late stage, when impor-
tant decisions had already been made.

The U.P. Provincial Congress Committee had also appointed
a small committee to collect various agrarian data, past and
present, and to report on the existing situation. This committee
submitted a long report containing an able survey of agrarian
conditions in the U.P. and an analysis of the havoc caused by
the agricultural slump in prices. Their recommendations were
far-reaching. The report, which was published in book form,
was signed by Govind Ballabh Pant, Rafi Ahmad Kidwai, and
Venkatesh Narayan Tewary.

Long before this report came out, Gandhiji had gone to
London for the Round Table Conference. He had gone with
great hesitation, and one of the reasons for this hesitation was
the U.P. agrarian situation. He had in fact almost decided that,
in the event of not going to London for the Round Table
Conference, he would come to the U.P. and devote himself to
this complex problem. The last Simla conversations with the
Government dealt, inter alia, with the U.P. After his departure
for England we kept him folly informed of developments. I
used to write to him, during the first month or two, every week
both by the air mail and tne ordinary mail. During the latter
part of his stay I was not so regular, as we expected him to
return soon. He had given us to understand that, at the very
latest, he would be back within three months^ that is, some
time in November, and we had hoped that no crisis would arise
in India till then. Above all, we wanted to avoid crises and
conflicts with Government in his absence. When, however, his
return was delayed and the agrarian situation began to develop
rapidly, we sent him a long cablegram informing him of the
latest developments and pointing out to him how our hands
were being forced. He replied by cable that he was helpless in
the matter and could not do anything for us then, and told us
to go ahead according to our lights.

308 jawaharlal nehru

The Working Committee was also kept fully informed by the
Provincial Congress Executive. I was always there to give them
first-hand information, but, as matters were taking a serious
turn, the Committee also conferred with our Provincial Presi-
dent, Tasadduq Sherwani, and the Allahabad District President,
Purushottam Das Tandon.

The Government Agrarian Committee issued its report and
made certain recommendations, which were both complicated
and vague, and left a great deal to local officers. On the whole,
the proposed remissions were bigger than in the past season, but
we felt that they were not enough. We objected to the prin-
ciples underlying the recommendations as well as to their appli-
cation. Also, the report dealt with the future only and ignored
past arrears, debt, and the question of the large number of dis-
possessed tenants. What were we to do? Just advise the
peasantry to pay as much as they could, as we had done in the
spring and summer, and face the same consequences? That
advice, we had seen, was the most foolish of all and could not
be repeated. Either the peasants should make a great effort and
pay the revised demand in full, if they could at all do so, or
they should not pay at all for the present and await develop-
ments. To pay part of the rent demanded was neither here nor
there; the tenants exhausted their financial resources and, at
the same time, lost their land.

Our Provincial Congress Executive considered the position
long and eamesdy and decided that the Government proposals
were not favourable enough to be accepted as they were, al-
though they were an improvement on the summer’s remissions.
There was still a possibility of their being varied to the

E sasantry’s advantage, and we pressed Government accordingly.

ut we felt that there was little hope, and the conflict we had
tried to avoid seemed to approach with some rapidity. The
attitude of the Provincial Government as well as the Govern-
ment of India towards the Congress organisation had been pro-
gressively changing and becoming more frigid. To our long
letters we received brief replies referring us to local officials. It
was obvious that the policy of Government was not to en-
courage us in any way. One grievance and difficulty of the
Government was the possibility of Congress prestige going up
because of the grant of remissions to the peasantry. Through
long habit, it could only think in terms of prestige, and the idea
that the masses ought give the credit for the remissions to the
Congress irritated it, and it wanted to avoid this as for as pos-
sible.

AGRARIAN TROUBLES IN THE UNITED PROVINCES 309

Meanwhile, reports were coming to us from Delhi and else-
where that the Government of India were on the point of
launching a big offensive against the whole Congress movement.
The little finger was going to function more vigorously now
and the scorpions were going to chastise us. We even received
many details of the proposed action. Some time in November,
I think, Dr. Ansari sent me (as well as separately to Vallabhbhai
Patel, the Congress President) a message confirming many of
the previous reports received by us, and especially giving details
of the proposed ordinances for the Frontier and the United
Provinces. Bengal had, I believe, already received the gift of a
new ordinance or, perhaps, was about to receive it. Dr. Ansari’s
message was amply confirmed even in its details many weeks
later, when the new ordinances appeared as if to meet a
new situation. It was generally supposed that Government
had delayed action because of the unforeseen prolongation of
the Round Table Conference. They wished to avoid whole-
sale repression in India while the members of the Round
Table Conference whispered sweet nothings into each other’s
ears.

So tension grew, and all of us had a feeling that events were
marching ahead despite our little selves, and none could stop
them from their predestined course. All we could do was to
prepare ourselves to face them and to play our parts,- individu-
ally and together, in the drama — more likely the tragedy — of
life. But we hoped still that Gandhiji would be back before the
curtain went up on this clash of forces, and would take the
responsibility on his shoulders for peace or war. None of us
was prepared to shoulder that burden in his absence.

In the United Provinces, the Government took another step
which produced a commotion in the rural areas. Remission
slips were distributed to the tenants, stating how much remis-
sion had been allowed, and containing a threat that unless the
amount now due was paid up within a month (sometimes the
period mentioned was shorter), the remission would be cancelled
and the full sum realised by legal process, which meant eject-
ment, attachment of property, etc. In normal years the tenants
usually paid up their rent in instalments in tne course of two
or three months. Even this usual period was thus not allowed.
The whole countryside was suddenly faced by a crisis, and, slip in
hand, the tenants rushed about protesting and complaining and
asking for advice. It was a very foolish threat on the part of
the Government or their local officials, and it was not, we were
told later, meant seriously. But it lessened the chances of a

3»0 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

peaceful settlement very greatly and led inevitably, step by step,
to conflict

The choice had to be made very soon now by the peasants
and by the Congress; we could not postpone our decision til)
Gandhiji’s return. What were we to do? What advice to give?
Could we reasonably ask the peasants to pay up the sum de-
manded within the short period allowed when we knew that
many of them could not possibly do so? And then what of the
arrears due from them? Would they not run the risk of dis-
possession even if they paid a large part of the sum demanded,
or even the full current demand, which might be credited to
arrears?

The Allahabad District Congress Committee, with its strong
peasant contingent, showed nght. It decided that it could not
possibly advise the peasants to pay. It was told, however, that
it could not take any aggressive step without the formal permis-
sion of the ProvincialExecutive as well as of the All-India
Working Committee. The matter was, therefore, referred to the
Working Committee, and both Tasadduq Sherwani and Puru-
shottam Das Tandon were present to place the case for the
province and the district. The question before us related to
Allahabad district only and it was a purely economic issue, but
we realised that, in the state of political tension then existing,
it might have far-reaching consequences. Should the Allahabad
District Committee be permitted to advise the peasants in the
district to withhold payment of rent or revenue for the time
being and pending fiirtner negotiation and better terms? This
was the narrow issue and we wanted to confine ourselves to it,
but could we do so? The Working Committee wanted to strain
every nerve to prevent a break with Government before Gand-
hiji’s return, and, in particular, it wanted to avoid a break on an
economic issue which might develop into a class issue. The
Committee, though politically advanced, was not so socially, and
it disliked the raising of the tenant versus zamindar question.

Being socialistically inclined, I was not considered a very safe
person to advise on economic and social matters. I myself felt
that the Working Committee should realise that the U.P. situa-
tion was such that even our more moderate and right wing
members were bang forced by events to take action, in spite of
all their disinclination for it. I welcomed, therefore, the pre-
sence of Sherwani and others from our province at our Com-
mittee meeting, for Sherwani (our Provincial President) was by
an means a fire-brand. Constitutionally he was a right winger
in the Congress, both politically and socially, and, at the begin-

AGRARIAN TROUBLES IN THE UNITED PROVINCES 31I

ning of the year, he had been prejudiced against the agrarian
policy of the U.P. Congress Committee. But when he became
the head of that Committee himself and had to shoulder the
burden, he realised that there was no other alternative for us.
Every subsequent step taken by the Provincial Committee was
in the closest co-operation with him and, indeed, often through
him, as President.

Tasadduq Sherwani’s pleading before the Working Commit-
tee, therefore, produced great effect on the members — a much
greater effect man mine would have done. With great hesita-
tion, but feeling that they could not refuse it, they gave the
U.P. Committee authority to permit in any area the suspension
of payment of rent and revenue. But, at the same time, they
pressed the U.P. people to avoid this step if they could and to
carry on negotiations with the Provincial Government.

These negotiations were carried on for a while with little
result. Some improvement was made, I believe, in the Allaha-
bad district figures for remissions. It might have been possible,
under ordinary circumstances, to arrive at a settlement or at
least to avoid open conflict. The differences were being nar-
rowed down. But the circumstances were very unusual, and on
both sides — the Government and the Congress — there was the
feeling of the inevitability of an approaching conflict, and there
was no reality behind our negotiations. Every step taken by
either party seemed to indicate a desire to manoeuvre for a posi-
tion. The Government’s preparations for this could be and were
in fact carried on and perfected in secret. Our strength lay
entirely in the morale of the people, and this could not be pre-
pared or raised by secret activities. Some of us — and I was one
of the guilty ones— had often repeated in our public speeches
that the struggle for freedom was far from over, and that we
would have to free many trials and difficulties in the near
future. We had asked our people to keep themselves in readi-
ness for them, and because of this we had been criticised as
war-mongers. As a matter of fact, there was a marked reluc-
tance on the part of our middle-class Congress workers to free
facts, and they hoped that somehow or other a conflict would
be avoided. Gandhiji’s presence in London also distracted the
attention of the newspaper-reading classes. And yet in spite of
this passivity of the intelligentsia, events marched ahead,
especially in Bengal, the Frontier Province and the U.P., and in
November it began to dawn on many people that a crisis was
approaching.

The U.P. Provincial Congress Committee, afraid of being

312 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

forestalled by events, made some domestic arrangements in the
event of conflict taking place. The Allahabad Committee held
a big Peasant Conference, which passed a tentative resolution
stating that, in case better terms were not obtained, they would
have to advise the peasants to withhold payment of rent and
revenue. This resolution irritated the Provincial Government
greatly, and, treating it as a casus belli, it refused to have any
further dealings witn us. That attitude again produced its re-
actions on the Provincial Congress, which interpreted it as a
sign of the coming storm and hastened its own preparations.
In Allahabad there was yet another Peasant Conference, when
a stronger and more definite resolution asking the peasantry to
withhold payment pending further negotiations and better
terms, was passed. The attitude taken up even then, and to the
end, was not one of a ‘no-rent" campaign but a ‘fair-rent*
campaign, and we went on asking for negotiations, though the
other party had ostentatiously walked away. The Allahabad
resolution applied to zamindar and tenant alike, but we knew
that in effect it applied to tenants and some petty zamindars
only.

This was the position in the U.P. towards the end of Novem-
ber and the beginning of December 1931. Meanwhile in Bengal
and the Frontier Province matters had also marched to a head,
and in Bengal a new and terribly comprehensive ordinance had
been applied. All these were signs of war, not of peace, and the
question arose: when would Gandhiji return? would he reach
India before the Government started its great offensive, for
which it had prepared so long? Or would he return to find
many of his colleagues in prison and the struggle launched?
We learnt that he was on his way back and would reach Bom-
bay in the last week of the year. Each one of us, every
prominent worker in the Congress at headquarters or in the
provinces, wanted to avoid that struggle till his return. Even
from the point of view of the struggle itself it was desirable for
us to meet him, to have his advice and his directions. It was a
race in which we were helpless. The initiative lay with the
British Government.

THE END OF THE TRUCE

In spite of my preoccupation in the United Provinces, I had
long been anxious to visit the two other storm centres, the
Frontier Province and Bengal. I wanted to study the situation
on the spot and to meet old colleagues, many of whom I had
not seen for nearly two years. But, above all, I wanted to pay
my homage to the spirit and courage of the people of these
provinces and their sacrifices in the national struggle. The
Frontier Province was beyond reach for the time being, for the
Government of India did not approve of any prominent Con-
gressman visiting it, and we had no desire to go in view of this
disapproval, and thus create an impasse.

In Bengal the situation was deteriorating and, much as I was
attracted to the province, I hesitated before going. I realised
that I would be helpless there and could do little good. A
deplorable and long-standing dispute between two groups of
Congressmen in the province had long frightened outside Con-
gressmen and kept them away, for they were afraid of getting
involved in it on one side or the other. This was a feeble and
ostrich-like policy, and did not help either in soothing Bengal
or in solving her problems. Some time after Gandhiji had gone
to London two incidents suddenly concentrated all-India atten-
tion on the situation in Bengal. These two took place in Hijli
and Chittagong.

Hijli was a special detention camp gaol for detenus. It was
officially announced that a riot had taken place inside the
camp, the detenus had attacked the staff, and the latter had
been forced to fire on them. One detenu was killed by this firing
and many were wounded. A local official enquiry, held im-
mediately after, absolved the staff from all blame for this firing
and its consequences. But there were many furious features,
and some facts leaked out which did not fit in with the official
version, and vehement demands were made for a fuller enquiry.
Contrary to the usual official practice in India, the Government
of Bengal appointed an Enquiry Committee consisting of high
judicial officers. It was a purely official committee, but it
took evidence and considered the matter fully, and its findings
were against the staff of the Detention Camp Gaol. It was held
that the fault was largely that of the staff, and the firing was

3*4 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

unjustified. The previous Government communiques issued on
the subject were thus entirely falsified.

There was nothing very extraordinary about the Hijli occur*
rence. Unhappily such incidents or accidents are not rare in
India, and one frequently reads of ‘gaol riots’ and of the
gallant suppression of unarmed and helpless prisoners within
the gaol by armed warders and others. Hijli was unusual in
so far as it exposed, and exposed officially, the utter one-sided-
ness, and even the falsity of Government communiques on such
occurrences. Little credence had been attached to these
communiques in the past, but now they were completely found
out.

Since the Hijli affair a large number of gaol ‘ occurrences ’
involving sometimes firing, sometimes the use of other kinds
of force by the staff, have taken place all over India. Strangely
enough in these 'gaol riots' only the prisoners seem to get hurt.
Almost invariably an official communique has been issued
accusing the prisoners of various misdeeds and absolving the
staff. Very rarely some departmental punishments have been
awarded to the staff. All demands for a full enquiry have been
curtly refused, a departmental enquiry being deemed sufficient.
Evidently the lesson of Hijli was well learnt by Government, that
it is unsafe to have proper and impartial enquiries, and the best
judge is the accuser himself. Is it surprising that the people
also should leam the lesson of Hijli, that Government com-
muniques tell us what the Government wants them to believe
and not what actually happens?

The Chittagong affair was much more serious. A terrorist
shot down and killed a Muslim police inspector. This was fol-
lowed by a Hindu-Muslim riot, or so it was called. It was
patent, however, that it was something much more than that;
something different from the usual communal riot. It was
obvious that the terrorist’s act had nothing to do with com-
munalism; it was directed against a police officer, regardless
of whether he was a Hindu or Muslim. Yet it is true
that there was some Hindu-Muslim rioting afterwards. How
this started, what was the occasion for it, has not been cleared
up, although very serious charges have been made by respon-
sible public men. Another feature of the rioting was the part
taken by definite groups of other people, Anglo-Indians, chiefly
railway employees, and other Government employees, who are
alleged to have indulged in reprisals on a large scale. J. M. Sen-
Gupta and other, noted leaders of Bengal made specific allega-
tions in regard to the occurrences in Chittagong, and challenged

THE END OF THE TRUCE 315

an enquiry or even a suit for defamation, but the Government
preferred to take no such step.

These somewhat unusual occurrences in Chittagong drew
pointed attention to two dangerous possibilities. Terrorism had
been condemned from many points of view; even modem
revolutionary technique condemned it. But one of its possible
consequences had always especially frightened me, and that was
the danger of sporadic and communal violence spreading in
India. I am not enough of a ‘ timid Hindu ’ to be afraid of
violence as such, although I certainly dislike it. But I do fed
that the disruptive forces in India are still very great, and
sporadic violence would certainly give them strength and make
tne process of building up a united and disdphned nation a
much harder task than it is. When people murder in the name
of religion, or to reserve a place for themselves in Paradise, it
is a dangerous thing to accustom them to the idea of terroristic
violence. Political murder is bad. And yet the political terrorist
can be reasoned with and won over to other ways, because pre-
sumabi ♦he end he is striving for is an earthly one, not per*
sonal bui national. Religious murder is worse, for it deals with
things of the other world, and one cannot even attempt to
reason about such matters. Sometimes the dividing line between
the two is very thin and almost disappears, and political mur-
der, by a metaphysical process, becomes semi-religious.

The Chittagong murder of a police official by a terrorist, and
its consequences, made one realise very vividly the dangerous
possibilities of terroristic activity and the enormous harm it
might do to the cause of Indian unity and freedom. The re-
prisals that followed also showed us that fascist methods had
appeared in India. Since then there have been many instances,
notably in Bengal, of such reprisals, and the fascist spirit has
undoubtedly spread in the European and Anglo-Indian com-
munity. Some of the Indian hangers-on of British imperialism
have also imbibed it.

It is a curious thing, but the Terrorists themselves, or many
of them, also have this fascist outlook, but it looks in a different
direction. Their nationalist-fascism faces the imperialist-fascism
of the Europeans, Anglo-Indians, and some upper-class Indians.

I went to Calcutta tor a few days in November 1931. I had
a very crowded programme, and, apart from meeting individuals
and groups privately, addressed a number of mass meetings. In
all these meetings I discussed the question of terrorism, and
tried to show how wrong and futile and harmful it was for
Indian freedom. I did not abuse the Terrorists, nor did I call

316 jawaharlal nehrv

them ‘ dastardly ’ or ‘ cowardly after the fashion of some of
our countrymen who have themselves seldom, if ever, yielded
to the temptation of doing anything brave or involving risk.
It has always seemed to me a singularly stupid thing to call a
man or woman, who is constantly risking his life, a coward.
And the reaction of it on that man is to make him a little more
contemptuous of his timid critics who shout from a distance
and are incapable of doing anything.

On my last evening in Calcutta, a little before I was due to go
to the station for my departure, two young men called on me.
They were very young, about twenty, with pale, nervous faces
and brilliant eyes. I aid not know who they were, but soon I
guessed their errand. They were very angry with me for my
propaganda against terroristic violence. They said that it was
producing a bad effect on young men, and they could not
tolerate my intrusion in this way. We had a little argument;
it was a hurried one, for the time for my departure was at hand.
I am afraid our voices and our tempers rose, and I told them
some hard things; and as I left them, they warned me finally
that if I continued to misbehave in the future they would deal
with me as they had dealt with others.

And so I left Calcutta, and as I lay in my berth in the train
that night I was long haunted by the excited faces of these
two boys. Full of life and nervous energy they were; what good
material if only they turned the right way! I was sorry that
I had dealt with them hurriedly and rather brusquely, and
wished I had had the chance of long conversation with them.
Perhaps I could have convinced them to apply their bright
young lives to other ways, ways of serving India and freedom,
in which there was no lack of opportunity for daring and self-
sacrifice. Often I have thought of them in these after years. I
never found out their names, nor did I have any other trace of
them; and I wonder, sometimes, if they are dead or in some
cell in the Andaman Islands.

It was December. The second Peasant Conference took place
in Allahabad, and then I hurried south to the Karnataka to
fulfil a long promise made to my old comrade of the Hindu-
stani Seva Dal, Doctor N. S. Hardiker. The Seva Dal, the
volunteer wing of the national movement, had all along been
an auxiliary of the Congress, though its organisation was quite
separate, fn the summer of 1931, however, the Working
Committee decided to absorb it completely into the Congress
organisation, and to make it the Volunteer Department of the
Congress. This was done, and Hardiker and I were put in charge

THE END OF THE TRUCE 317

of it. The headquarters of the Dal continued in the Karnataka
province at Hubli, and Hardiker induced me to visit the place
for various functions connected with the Dal. He then took
me about on tour for a few days in Karnataka, and I was
amazed at the tremendous enthusiasm of the people every-
where. On my way back I visited Sholapur of Martial Law
fame.

That tour in the Karnataka assumed the character of a fare-
well performance for me; my speeches became swan-songs,
though they were rather aggressive and, I am afraid, not
musical. News from the U.P. was definite and clear, the Govern-
ment had struck, and struck hard. On my way to the Karnataka
from Allahabad I had gone to Bombay with Kamala. She was
again ill, and I arranged for her treatment in Bombay. It was
in Bombay, almost immediately after our arrival from Allaha-
bad, that we learnt that the Government of India had pro-
mulgated a special Ordinance for the United Provinces. They
had decided not to wait for Gandhiji’s arrival, although he was
already on the high seas, and was due in Bombay soon. The
Ordinance was supposed to deal with the agrarian agitation,
but it was so extraordinarily wide-flung and far-reaching that
it made all political or public activity impossible. It provided
even for the punishment of parents and guardians for the sins
of their children and wards — a reversal of the old Biblical
practice.

It was about this time that we read the report of the inter-
view alleged to have been given by Gandhiji in Rome to the
Giornale d’ltalia. This came as a surprise, as it was unlike him
to give an interview of this kind casually in Rome. On closer
examination we found many words and phrases in it which
were quite foreign to him, and it was patent to us, even before
the denial came, that the interview could not have been given
as published. We thought that there had been a great deal of
distortion of something that he had said. Then came his
emphatic contradiction of it, and his statement that he had
never given any interview at all in Rome. It was evident to us
that some one had played a trick on him. But to our amaze-
ment British newspapers and public men refused to believe him,
and contemptuously referred to him as a liar. This hurt and
angered.

I was eager to go back to Allahabad and to give up the
Karnataka tour. I felt that my place was with my comrades in
the U.P.. and to be far away when so much was happening at
home was an ordeal. I decided, however, in favour of adhering

318 jawaharlal nehru

to the Karnataka programme. On my return to Bombay some
friends advised me to stay on for Gandhiji’s arrival, winch was
due exactly a week later. But this was impossible. From
Allahabad came news of Purushottam Das Tandon’s arrest and
other arrests. There was, besides, our Provincial Conference
which. had been fixed at Etawah for that week. And so I
decided to go to Allahabad and to return to Bombay six days
later, if I was free, to meet Gandhiji and to attend a meeting
of the Working Committee. I left Kamala bed-ridden in
Bombay.

Even before I had reached Allahabad, at Chheoki station, an
order under the new Ordinance was served on me. At Allaha-
bad station another attempt was made to serve a duplicate of
that order on me; at my house a third attempt was made by
a third person. Evidently no risks were being taken. The order
interned me within the municipal limits of Allahabad, and I
was told that I must not attend any public meeting or function,
or speak in public, or write anything in a newspaper or leaflet.
There were many other restrictions. I found that a similar order
had been served on many of my colleagues, including Tasadduq
Sherwani. The next morning 1 wrote to the District Magistrate
(who had issued the order) acknowledging receipt of it and
informing him that I did not propose to take my orders from
him as to what I was to do or not to do. I would carry on with
my ordinary work in the ordinary way, and in the course of
this work I proposed to return to Bombay soon to meet
Mr. Gandhi, and take part in the meeting of the Working
Committee, of which I was the secretary.

A new problem confronted us. Our U.P. Provincial Con-
ference had been fixed to meet at Etawah that week. I had
come from Bombay with the intention of suggesting a post-
ponement, as it dashed somewhat with Gandhiji’s arrival, and
in order to avoid conflict with the Government. But before my
return to Allahabad a peremptory message had come from the
U.P. Government to our President, Sherwani, enquiring if our
conference would consider the agrarian question, for if so, they
would prohibit the conference itself. It was patent that the
main purpose of. the conference was to discuss the agrarian
question which was agitating the whole province; to meet and
not to discuss it would be the height of absurdity and self-
stultification. And in any event our President or any one else
had no authority 'to tie down the conference. Quite apart from
the Government’s threat it was the intention of some of us to
postpone the conference, but this threat made a difference.

THE END OF THE TRUCE

319

Many of us were rather obstinate in such matters, and the
idea of bong dictated to by Government was not pleasant.
After long argument we decided to swallow our pride and to
postpone the conference. We did so because almost at any cost
we wanted still to avoid the development of the conflict, which
had already begun, till Gandhiji’s arrival. We did not want
him to be confronted with a situation in which he was power-
less to take the helm. In spite of our postponement of our
Provincial Conference there was a great display of the police
and military at Etawah, some stray delegates were attested,
and the Swadeshi Exhibition there was seized by the military.

Sherwani and I decided to leave Allahabad for Bombay on
the morning of December 26th. Sherwani had been especially
invited to the Working Committee meeting to confer on the
U.P. situation. Both of us had been served with orders under
the Ordinance not to leave Allahabad city. The Ordinance
was said to be directed against the suspension of rent activities
in the rural areas of Allahabad and some other U.P. districts.
It was easy to understand that the Government should prevent
us from visiting these rural areas. But it was obvious that we
could not carry on this agrarian agitation in the city of Bom-
bay; and the Ordinance, if it was really meant for the agrarian
situation only, should have welcomed our departure from the
province. Ever since the promulgation of the Ordinance our
general policy had been a defensive one, and we had avoided
coming to grips with it, although there had been individual
cases of disobedience of orders. So far as the U.P. Congress
was concerned, it was clear that they wanted to avoid or post-
pone conflict with the Government for the present at least.
Sherwani and I were going to Bombay where Gandhiji and the
Working Committee would consider these matters, and no one
knew— certainly I was by no means sure— what their ultimate
decisions might be.

All these considerations made me think that we would be
permitted to go to Bombay, and the technical breach of the
order of internment would, for the moment at least, be tolerated
by Government. And yet in my bones I felt otherwise.

As we got into the train we read in the morning's papers
of the new Frontier Province Ordinance and the arrest of
Abdul Ghaffar Khan and Doctor Khan Sahib and others. Very
soon our train, the Bombay Mail, came to a sudden halt at a
wayside station, Iradatganj, which is not one of its usual
stopping places, and police officials mounted up to arrest us. A
Black Maria waited by the railway line, and Sherwani and I

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

330

mounted this closed prisoners’ van and were bumped away to
Naini. The Superintendent of Police, an Englishman, who had
arrested us on that morning of Boxing Day looked glum and
unhappy. I am afraid we had spoiled his Christmas.

And so to prison 1

“ Absent thee from felicity a while,

And for a season draw thy breath in pain.”

XLI

ARRESTS, ORDINANCES, PROSCRIPTIONS

Two days after our arrest Gandhiji landed in Bombay, and it
was only then that he learnt of the latest developments* He
had heard in London of the Bengal Ordinance, and had been
much upset by it. He now found that fresh Christmas gifts
awaited him in the shape of the U.P. and Frontier Ordinances,
and some of his closest colleagues in the Frontier Province
and the U.P. had been arrested. The die seemed to be cast
and all hope of peace gone, but still he made an effort to find
a way out, and sought an interview with the Viceroy, Lord Wil-
lingdon, for the purpose. The interview, he was informed from
New Delhi, could only take place on certain conditions — these
conditions being that he must not discuss recent events in
Bengal, U.P. and the Frontier, the new Ordinances, and the
arrests under them. (I write from memory, and have not got
the text of the Viceregal reply before me.) What exactly
Gandhiji or any Congress leader was officially supposed to dis-
cuss with the Viceroy, apart from these forbidden subjects
which were agitating the country, passes one’s comprehension.
It was absolutely clear now that the Government of India had
determined to crush the Congress, and would have no dealings
with it. The Working Committee had no choice left but to
resort to civil disobedience. They expected arrest at any
moment, and they wanted to give a lead to the country before
their enforced departure. Even so, the civil disobedience resolu-
tion was passed tentatively, and another attempt was made by
Gandhiji to see the Viceroy, and he sent him a second telegram
asking for an unconditional interview. The reply of the Govern-
ment was to arrest Gandhiji as well as the Congress President,
and to press the button which was to let loose fierce repression
all over the country. It was clear that whoever else wanted or
did not want the struggle, the Government was eager and over-
ready for it.

We were in gaol, of course, and all this news came to us
vaguely and disjointedly. Our trial was postponed to the New
Year, and so we had, as under-trials, more interviews than a
convict could have. We heard of the great discussion that was
going on as to whether the Viceroy should or should not have
agreed to the interview, as if it really mattered either way.

s*i

322 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

This question of the interview shadowed all other matters. It
was stated that Lord Irwin would have agreed to the interview,
and if he and Gandhiji had met all would have been well. I
was surprised at the extraordinarily superficial view that the
Indian Press took of the situation and how they ignored
realities. Was the inevitable struggle between Indian National*
ism and British Imperialism — in the final analysis, two irrecon*
ciliables— to be reduced to the personal whims of individuals?
Could the conflict of two historical forces be removed by
smiles and mutual courtesy? Gandhiji was driven to act in one
way, because Indian Nationalism could not commit hara-kiri
or submit willingly to foreign dictation in vital matters; the
British Viceroy of India had to act in a particular way to meet
the challenge of this Nationalism and to endeavour to protect
British interest, and it made not the slightest difference who
the Viceroy was at the time. Lord Irwin would have acted
exactly as Lord Willingdon did, for either of them was but the
instrument of British imperialist policy and could only make
some minor deviations from the line laid down. Lord Irwin,
indeed, was subsequently a member of the British Government,
and he associated himself fully with the official steps taken in
India. To praise or condemn individual Viceroys for British
policy in India seems to me a singularly inept thing to do, and
our habit of indulging in this pastime can only be due to an
ignorance of the real issues or to a deliberate evasion of them.

January 4th, 1932, was a notable day. It put a stop to argu-
ment and discussion. Early that morning Gandhiji and the
Congress President, Vallabhbhai Patel, were arrested and con-
fined without trial as State prisoners. Four new ordinances were
promulgated giving the most far-reaching powers to magistrates
and police officers.* Civil liberty ceased to exist, and both person
and property could be seized by the authorities. It was a
declaration of a kind of state of siege for the whole of India,
the extent and intensity of application being left to the dis-
cretion of the local authorities. 1

On that 4th of January also our trial took place in Naim
Prison under the U.P. Emergency Powers Ordinance, as it was
called. Sherwani was sentenced to six months* rigorous im-
prisonment and a fine of Rs.150; I was sentenced to two years'
rigorous imprisonment and a fine of Rs.500 (in default six

1 Sir Samuel Hoarc, Secretary of State for India, stated in the
House of Commons on March 24, 1932: “I admit that the Ordi-
nances that we have approved are very drastic and severe. They
cover almost every activity of Indian lire."

ARRESTS, ORDINANCES, PROSCRIPTIONS 313

months more). Our offences were identical; we had been served
with identical orders of internment in Allahabad city; we had
committed the same breach of them by attempting to go to-
gether to Bombay; we had been arrested and tried together
under the same section, and yet our sentences were very dis-
similar. There was, however, one difference: I had written to
the District Magistrate and informed him of my intention to
go to Bombay in defiance of the order; Sherwani had given no
such formal notice, but his proposed departure was equally well
known, and had been mentioned in the Press. Immediately
after the sentence Sherwani asked the trying magistrate, to the
amusement of those present and the embarrassment of the
magistrate, if his smaller sentence was due to communal con-
siderations.

Quite a lot happened on that fateful day, January 4th, all
over the country. Not far from where we were, in Allahabad
city, huge crowds came in conflict with the police and military,
and there were the usual lathi charges involving deaths and
other casualties. The gaols began to ml with civil disobedience
prisoners. To begin with, these prisoners went to the district
gaols, and Naini and the other great central prisons received
only the overflows. Later, all the gaols filled up, and huge
temporary camp gaols were established.

Very few came to our little enclosure in Naini. My old
companion, Narmada Prasad, joined us, and Ranjit Pandit and
my cousin, Mohanlal Nehru. A surprising addition to our little
brotherhood of Barrack No. 6 was Bernard Aluvihare, a young
friend from Ceylon, who had just returned from England after
being called to the Bar. He had been told by my sister not to
get mixed up with our demonstrations; but, in a moment of
enthusiasm, he joined a Congress procession— and a Black
Maria carried him to prison.

The Congress had been declared illegal — the Working Com-
mittee at the top, the Provincial Committees, and innumerable
local committees. Together with the Congress all manner of
allied or sympathetic or advanced organisations had been
declared unlawful — kisan sabhas and peasant unions, youth
leagues, students’ associations, advanced political organisations,
national universities and schools, hospitals, swadeshi concerns,
libraries. The lists were indeed formidable, and contained
many hundreds of names for each major province. The all-
India total must have run into several thousands, and this very
number of outlawed organisations was in itself a tribute to the
Congress and the National Movement.

324 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

My wife lay in Bombay, ill in bed, fretting at her inability to
take part in civil disobedience. My mother and both my sisters
threw themselves into the movement with vigour, and soon
both the sisters were in gaol with a sentence of a year each. Odd
bits of news used to reach us through newcomers to prison or
through the local weekly paper that we were permitted to read.
We could only guess much that was happening, for the press
censorship was strict, and the prospect of heavy penalties always
faced newspapers and news agencies. In some provinces it was
an offence even to mention the name of a person arrested or
sentenced.

So we sat in Naini Prison cut off from the strife outside, and
yet wrapped up in it in a hundred ways; busying ourselves with
spinning or reading or other activities, talking sometimes of
other matters, but thinking always of what was happening
beyond the prison walls. We were out of it, and yet in it.
Sometimes the strain of expectation was very great; or there
was anger at something wrongly done; disgust at weakness or
vulgarity. At other times we were strangely detached, and
could view the scene calmly and dispassionately, and feel that
petty individual errors or weaknesses mattered little when vast
forces were at play and the mills of the gods were grinding.
We would wonder what the morrow would bring of strife and
tumult, and gallant enthusiasm and cruel repression and hate-
ful cowardice — and what was all this leading to? Whither were
we going? The future was hid from us, and it was as well that
it was hidden; even the present was partly covered by a veil,
so far as we were concerned. But this we knew; that there
was strife and suffering and sacrifice in the present and on the
morrow.

“ Men will renew the battle in the plain
To-morrow; red with blood will Xanthu9 be;

Hector and Ajax will be there again;

Helen will come upon the wall to see.

44 Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in strife.

And fluctuate ’tween blind hopes and blind despairs.

And fancy that we put forth all our life.

And never know how with the soul it fares.” 1

s 1 Matthew Arnold.

XLII

BALLYHOO

Those early months of 1932 were remarkable, among; other
things, for an extraordinary exhibition of ballyhoo on the part
of the British authorities. Officials, high and low, shouted out
how virtuous and peaceful they were, and how sinful and pug-
nacious was the Congress. They stood for democracy while the
Congress favoured dictatorships. Was not its President called a
dictator? In their enthusiasm for a righteous cause they forgot
trifles like Ordinances, and suppression of all liberties, and muz-
zling of newspapers and presses, imprisonment of people
without trial, seizure of properties and monies, and the
many other odd things that were happening from day to day.
They forgot also the basic character of British rule in India.
Ministers of Government (our own countrymen) grew eloquent
on how Congressmen were ‘ grinding their axes ' — in prison —
while they laboured for the public good on paltry salaries of a
few thousand rupees per month. The lower magistracy not only
sentenced us to heavy terms but lectured to us in the process,
and sometimes abused the Congress and individuals connected
with it. Even Sir Samuel Hoare, from the serene dignity of his
high office as Secretary of State for India, announced that
though dogs barked the caravan moved on. He forgot for the
moment that the dogs were in gaol and could not easily bark
there, and those left outside were effectively muzzled.

Most surprising of all, the Cawnpore Communal Riots were
laid at the door of the Congress. The horrors of these truly
horrible riots were laid bare, and it was repeatedly stated that
the Congress was responsible for them. As it happened, the
Congress had played the only decent part in them, and one of
its noblest sons lay dead, mourned by every "group and com-
munity in Cawnpore. The Karachi session of the Congress,
immediately on hearing of the riots, appointed an Enquiry
Committee, and this Committee made a most exhaustive en-
quiry. After many months of labour, it issued a voluminous
report, which was promptly proscribed by the Government, and
printed copies were seized and, I suppose, destroyed. This at-
tempt to suppress the results of an enquiry has not prevented
our official critics and the British-owned Press from repeating
from time to time that the riots were due to Congress work.

5*5

3?6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

No doubt, in this and other matters, the truth will prevail in
the end, but sometimes the lie has a long start.

“ When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;

The truth is great and shall prevail,

When none cares whether it prevails or not.”

It was all very natural, I suppose, this exhibition of a hys-
terical war mentality, and no one could expect truth or restraint
under the circumstances. But it did seem to go beyond expec-
tation, and was surprising in its intensity and abandon. It was
some indication of the state of nerves of the ruling group in
India, and of how they had been repressing themselves in the
past. Probably the anger was not caused by anything we had
done or said, but by the realisation of their own previous fear
of losing their empire. Rulers who are confident of their own
strength do not give way in this manner. The contrast between
this picture and the other was very marked. For on the other
side silence reigned, not the silence of voluntary and dignified
restraint, but the silence of prison and of fear and an all-
pervasive censorship. But for this enforced gagging, no doubt
the other side would have also excelled in hysterical outbursts
and exaggeration and abuse. One outlet, however, there was —
unauthorised news sheets which were issued in various towns
from time to time.

The British-owned Anglo-Indian newspapers in India joined
in this game of ballyhoo with gusto, and gave utterance and
publicity to many a thought which perhaps they had nurtured
and repressed in secret for long. Ordinarily they have to be
a little careful of what they say, for many of their readers are
Indians, but the crisis in India swept away these restraints and
gave us a glimpse of the minds of all, English and Indian
alike. There are tew Anglo-Indian newspapers left in India;
one by one they have dropped out. Several of those that remain
are high-class journals, both in the news they supply and their
general get-up. Their leading articles on world affairs, though
always representing the conservative view-point, are able and
show knowledge and grasp. Undoubtedly as newspapers they
are probably the best in India. But on Indian political problems
there is a sudden fall, and their treatment of them is amazingly
one-sided; and, in limes of crisis, this partiality often becomes
hysteria and vulgarity. They represent faithfully the Govern-
ment of India, and the continuous propaganda they do for it
has not the merit of being unobtrusive.

BALLYHOO

3*7

Compared to these selected few Anglo-Indian newspapers, the
Indian newspapers are usually poor stuff. Their financial re-
sources are limited, and there is little attempt on the part of
their owners to improve them. They carry on their day-to-day
life with difficulty, and the unhappy editorial staff has no easy
time. Their get-up is poor, their advertisements often of the
most objectionable kind, and their general attitude to life and
politics sentimental and hysterical. Partly, I suppose, this is
due to the feet that we are a sentimental race; partly because
the medium (of the English newspapers) is a foreign tongue
and it is not easy to write simply and, at the same time, force-
fully. But the real reason is that all of us suffer from any
number of complexes due to long fepression and subjection,
and every outlet is apt to be surcharged with emotion.

Among the Indian-owned English newspapers, The Hindu of
Madras is probably the best, so far as get-up and news service
are concerned. It always reminds me of an old maiden lady,
very prim and proper, who is shocked if a naughty word is
used in her presence. It is eminently the paper of the bourgeois,
comfortably settled in life. Not for it is the shady side of
existence, the rough and tumble and conflict of life. Several
other newspapers of moderate views have also this ‘ old maiden
lady ’ standard. They achieve it, but without the distinction of
The Hindu and, as a result, they become astonishingly dull in
every respect.

It was evident that the Government had long prepared its
blow, and it wanted it to be as thorough and staggering as
possible right at the beginning. In 1930 it was always at-
tempting, by fresh Ordinances, to catch up an ever-worsening
situation. The initiative remained then with the Congress. The
1932 methods were different, and Government began with an
offensive all along the line. Every conceivable power was given
and taken under a batch of all-India and provincial Ordinances ;
organisations were outlawed; buildings, property, automobiles,
bank accounts were seized; public gatherings* and processions
forbidden, and newspapers and printing presses fully controlled.
On the other hand, unlike 1930, Gandhiji was definitely desirous
of avoiding civil disobedience just then, and most of the mem-
bers of the Working Committee thought likewise. Some of
them, including myself, thought that a struggle was inevitable,
however much we disliked it, and should therefore be prepared
for, and in the United Provinces and the Frontier Province
a growing tension had directed people’s minds to the approach-
ing conflict. But, on the whole, the middle classes and the

3«8 J AWAHARLAL NEHRU

intelligentsia were not thinking then in terms of struggle
although they could not wholly ignore the possibility. Some*
how, they hoped that this struggle would be avoided on
Gandhiji's return; the wish was obviously father to the thought.

Thus the initiative early in 1932 was definitely with the
Government, and Congress was always on the defensive. Local
Congress leaders in many places were taken by surprise by the
rapid devolpments leading to the Ordinances and civil diso-
bedience. In spite of this there was a remarkable response to
the Congress call, and there was no lack of civil resisters.
Indeed I think that there can be little doubt that the resistance
offered to the British Government in 1932 was far greater than
in 1930, although in 1930 there was more show and publicity,
especially in the big cities. In spite of this greater endurance
shown by the people in 1932, and their remaining overwhelm-
ingly peaceful, the initial push of inspiration was far less than
in 1930. It was as if we entered unwillingly to battle. There
was a glory about it in 1930 which had faded a little two yean
later. The Government countered Congress with every resource
at its command; India lived practically under martial law, and
Congress never really got back the initiative or any freedom
of action. The first blows stunned it, and most of its bourgeois
sympathisers who had been its principal supporten in the past.
Their pockets were hit, and it became obvious that those who
joined the civil disobedience movement, or were known to help
it in any way, stood to lose not only their liberty, but perhaps
all their property. This did not matter so much to us in the
U.P., where the Congress was a poor man’s concern; but in the
big cities, like Bombay, it made a great deal of difference. It
meant absolute ruin for the merchant class and great loss to
professional people. The mere threat of this (and it was some-
times carried out) paralysed these well-to-do city classes. I
learnt later of a timid but prosperous merchant, who had little
to do with polidcs, except perhaps to give an occasional dona-
tion, being threatened by the police with a fine of five lakhs of
rupees, besides a long term of imprisonment. Such threats
were fairly common, and were by no means empty talk, for the
police were all-powerful then and instances occurred daily of
threats being translated into action.

I do not think any Congressman has a right to object to the
procedure adopted by the Government, although the violence
and coercion used by the Government against an overwhelm-
ingly non-violent movement was certainly most objectionable
from any civilised standards. If we choose to adopt revolu-

BALLYHOO

3*9

•ionary direct action methods, however non-violent they might
be, we must expect every resistance. We cannot play at revolu-
tion in a drawing-room, but many people want to have the
advantage of both. For a person to dabble in revolutionary
methods, he must be prepared to lose everything he possesses.
The prosperous and the well-to-do are therefore seldom revolu-
tionaries, though individuals may play the fool in the eyes
of the worldly-wise and be dubbed traitors to their own class.

Other methods had to be adopted, of course, to deal with
the masses, who had no cars or banking accounts or other
property worth seizing, and on whom the real burden of the
struggle lay. One interesting result of the ruthlessness of
Government action in all directions was to whip up that crowd
of people, who might be called (to borrow a word from a recent
book) * Govemmentarians ’, into activity. Some of them had
recently begun to flirt with the Congress, not knowing what
the future might bring. But Government could not tolerate
this, and no passive loyalty was enough. In the words of
Frederick Cooper of Mutiny fame the authorities “ would brook
nothing short of absolute, active, and positive loyalty. Govern-
ment could not condescend to exist upon the moral sufferance
of its subjects.” A year ago Mr. Lloyd George referred to his
old colleagues, the leaders of the British Liberal Party who
had joined the National Government, as “specimens of those
changeable reptiles who adapt their hue to their environments.”
The new environment in India tolerated no neutral hues, and
so some of our countrymen appeared in the brightest of ap-
proved colours and, with song and feasting, they declared their
love and admiration for our rulers. They had nothing to fear
from the Ordinances and the numerous prohibitions and inhi-
bitions and curfew orders and sunset laws; for had it not been
officially stated that all this was meant for the disloyal and
the seditious, and the loyal need have no cause for alarm? And
so they could view the turmoil and conflict all round them
with a measure of equanimity, devoid of that fear that gripped
many of their countrymen. With Chloe (in The Faithful Shep-
herdess) they might perhaps have agreed when she said :

“ For from one cause of fear I am most free,

It is impossible to ravish me,

I am so willing.”

The Government had somehow got hold of the idea that
Congress was going to exploit women in the struggle by filling

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

33 °

the gaols with them, in the hope that women would be well
treated or would get light sentences. It was a fantastic notion,
as if any one likes to push his womenfolk into prison. Usually
when girls or women took an active part in the campaign, it
was in spite of their fathers or brothers or husbands, or at any
rate not with their full co-operation. Government, however,
decided to discourage women by long sentences and bad treat-
ment in prison. Soon after my sisters’ arrest and conviction, a
number of young girls, mostly 15 or 16 years old, met in Alla-
habad to discuss what they could do. They had no experience,
but were full of enthusiasm and wanted advice. They were
arrested as they were meeting in a private house, and each of
them was sentenced to two years’ rigorous imprisonment. This
was a minor incident, one of many that were occurring all over
India from day to day. Most of the girls and women who were
sentenced had a very bad time in prison, even worse than the
men had. I heard of many painful instances, but the most extra-
ordinary account that I saw was one prepared by Miraben
(Madeleine Slade) giving her experiences, together with those of
other civil disobedience prisoners, in a Bombay gaol.

In the United Provinces our struggle was centred in the rural
areas. Owing to the unceasing pressure of the Congress, as repre-
senting the peasantry, fairly substantial remissions had been
promised, though we did not think them enough. Immediately
after our arrest additional remissions were announced. It was
curious that this announcement did not come earlier, for it could
have made a great deal of difference. It would have been difficult
for us to reject it offhand. But then Government was very
anxious that the Congress should not get the credit for these
remissions, and so on the one side they wanted to crush the
Congress, and on the other to give as much as possible remissions
to the peasants to keep them quiet. It was noticeable that the
remissions were highest wherever the Congress pressure had been
greatest.

These remissions, considerable as they were, did not solve the
agrarian problem, but they did ease the situation greatly. They
took the edge off the peasantry’s resistance, and from the point
of view of our larger struggle, weakened us at the moment. That
struggle brought suffering to scores of thousands of peasants in
the U.P., and many were completely ruined by it. But the pres-
sure of that struggle brought millions of peasants almost the
highest possible remissions under the existing system, and saved
them (the consequences of civil disobedience and its offshoots
apart) from a tremendous amount of harassment. These petty

BALLYHOO

33 >

seasonal gains for the peasants do not amount to much, but I
have no doubt that, such as they were, they were largely due to
the persistent efforts of the U.P. Congress Committee on behalf
of tne peasantry. The general body of the peasantry benefited
temporarily, but the bravest of them were among the casualties
in that struggle.

When the U.P. Special Ordinance was issued in December 1931
an explanatory statement accompanied it. This statement, as
well as the statements accompanying other Ordinances, contained
many half-truths and untruths which were to serve as propa-
ganda. It was all part of the initial ballyhoo, and we had no
chance to answer them or even contradict their glaring errors.
One particularly glaring attempt, in which a falsehood was
sought to be fastened on Sherwani, was corrected by him just
before his arrest. These various statements and apologies of
Government made curious reading. They showed how rattled
Government was, how its nerve was shaken. Reading the other
day of a decree issued by the Bourbon Charles III of Spain,
banishing the Jesuits from his realm, I was forcibly reminded of
these decrees and ordinances of the British Government in
India and of the reasons given for them. In this decree, issued
in February 1767, the King justified his action by “extremely
grave reasons relative to my duty to maintain subordination,
tranquillity, and justice among mv subjects, and other urgent,
just, and necessary reasons which I reserve in my royal breast.”

So the real reasons for the Ordinances remained locked up in
the Viceregal breast or in the imperialist breasts of his coun-
sellors, though they were obvious enough. The reasons given
out officially helped us to understand the new technique of
propaganda which the British Government in India was per-
fecting. Some months later we learnt of semi-official
pamphlets and leaflets being widely distributed all over the
rural areas containing quite an astonishing number of mis-
representations and, in particular, hinting at the fact that the
Congress had caused the fall in agricultural prices which had
hurt the peasantry so much. This was a remarkable tribute to
the power of the Congress, which could bring about a world
depression! But the lie was spread persistently and assiduously,
in the hope that the prestige of the Congress might suffer.

In spite of all this, the response of the peasantry in some of
the principal districts of the U.P. to the call for civil diso-
bedience, which inevitably got mixed up with the dispute about
fair rent and remissions, was very fine. It was a for bigger and
more disciplined response than in 1930. To begin with there

333 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

was good humour about it too. A delightful story came to us
of a visit of a police party to the village Bakulia in Rae Bareli
district. They had gone to attach goods for non-payment of
rent. The village was relatively prosperous, and its residents
were men of some spirit. They received the revenue and police
officials with all courtesy and, leaving the doors of all the
houses open, invited them to go wherever they wanted to. Some
attachments of cattle, etc., were made. The villagers then
offered pan supari to the police and revenue officials, who
retired looking very small and rather shamefaced! But this
was a rare and unusual occurrence, and very soon there was
little of humour or charity or human kindness to be seen.
Poor Bakulia could not escape punishment for its spirit because
of its humour.

For many months in these particular districts rent was with-
held by the tenantry, and it was only early in summer probably
that collections began to dribble in. Large numbers of arrests
were of course made, but this was almost in spite of Govern-
ment’s policy. Generally arrests were confined to special workers
and village leaders. The others were merely beaten. Beating
was found to be superior to prison as well as shooting. It could
be repeated whenever necessary and, taking place in remote
rural areas, attracted little outside attention; nor did it add to
the swelling number of prisoners. There were of course large
numbers of ejectments, attachments and sale of cattle and
property. With terrible anguish, the peasants watched the
little they possessed being taken away and disposed of for
ridiculous prices.

Swaraj Bhawan had been seized by the Government, in com-
mon with numerous other buildings all over the country. All
the valuable equipment and material belonging to the Congress
Hospital, which was functioning in Swaraj Bhawan, was also
seized. For a few days the hospital ceased functioning alto-
gether, but then an open-air dispensary was established in a
park near by. Later the hospital, or rather dispensary, moved
to a small house adjoining Swaraj Bhawan, and there it func-
tioned for nearly two and a half years.

There was some talk of our dwelling-house, Anand Bhawan,
also being taken possession of by the Government, for I had
refused to pay a large amount due as income tax. This tax had
been assessed on father’s income in 1930, and he had not paid
it that year because of civil disobedience. In 1931, after the
Delhi Pact, I had an argument with the income tax authorities
about it, but ultimately I agreed to pay and did pay an instal-

BALLYHOO

333

mem. Just then came the Ordinances, and I decided to pay no
more. It seemed to me utterly wrong, and even immoral, for
me to ask the peasants to withhold payment of rent and
revenue and to pay income tax myself I expected; therefore,
that our house would be attached by the Government. I dis-
liked this idea intensely, as it would have meant my mother
being turned out; our books, papers, goods and chattels and
many things that we valued for personal and sentimental
reasons going into strange hands and perhaps being lost; and
our National Flag being pulled down and the Union Jack put
up instead. At the same time I was attracted to the idea of
losing the house. I felt that this would bring me nearer to the
peasantry, who were being dispossessed, and would hearten
them. From the point of view of our movement it was cer-
tainly a desirable thing. But the Government decided otherwise
and did not touch the house, perhaps because of consideration
for my mother, perhaps because they judged rightly that it
would give an impetus to civil disobedience. Many months
afterwards some odd railway shares of mine were discovered
and attached, for non-payment of income tax. My motor-car,
as well as my brother-in-law's, had been previously attached
and sold.

One feature of these early months pained me greatly. This
was the hauling down of our National Flag by various muni-
cipalities and public bodies, and especially by the Calcutta
Corporation which was said to have a majority of Congress
members. The flag was taken down under pressure from the
police and the Government, which threatened severe action in
case of non-compliance. This action would have probably
meant a suspension of the municipality or punishment of its
members. Organisations with vested interests are apt to be
timid, and perhaps it was inevitable that they should act as
they did, but nevertheless it hurt. That flag had become a
symbol to us of much that we held dear, and under its shadow
we had taken many a pledge to protect its honour. To pull
it down with our own hands, or to have it pulled down at our
behest, seemed not only a breaking of that pledge but almost
a sacrilege. It was a submission of the spirit, a denial of the
truth in one; an affirmation, in the face of superior physical
might, of the false. And those who submitted in this way low-
ered the morale of the nation, and injured its self-respect.

It was not that they were expected to behave as heroes, and
rush into the fire. It was wrong and absurd to blame any one
for not being in the front rank and courting prison, or other

334 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

suffering or loss. Each one had many duties and responsi-
bilities to shoulder, and no one else nad a right to sit in
judgment on him. But to sit or work in the background is
one thing; to deny the truth, or what one conceives to be the
truth, is a more serious matter. It was open to members of
municipalities, when called upon to do anything against die
national interest, to resign from their seats. As a rule they
preferred to remain in those seats.

“ But bees, on flowers alighting, cease their hum —

So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb! ” 1

Perhaps it is unjust to criticise any one for his behaviour
during a sudden crisis which threatens to overwhelm him. The
nerve of the bravest fails them sometimes, as the World War
demonstrated over and again. Earlier still, in the great Titanic
disaster of 1912, famous people, who could never have been
associated with cowardice, escaped by bribing the crew, leaving
others to drown. Very recently the fire on the Morro Castle
revealed a shameful state of affairs. No one knows how he will
behave in a similar crisis when the primeval instincts over-
power reason and restraint. So we may not blame. But that
should not prevent us from noting that falling away from right
conduct, and from taking care in future that the steering-wheel
of the ship of the nation is not put in hands that tremble and
fail when the need is greatest. Worse still is the attempt to
justify this failure and call it right conduct. That, surely, is
a greater offence than the failure itself.

All struggles between rival forces depend greatly on morale
and nerve. Even the bloodiest war depends upon them ; “ In
the final event battles are won by nerves,” said Marshal Foch.
Much more so are nerve and morale necessary in a non-violent
struggle, and any one who, by his conduct, impaits that morale
and shakes the nation’s nerve, does a serious disservice to the
cause.

The months went by bringing their daily toll of good news
and bad, and we adapted ourselves in our respective prisons, to
our dull and monotonous routine. The National Week came—
April 6th to 13th— and we knew that this would witness many
an unusual happening. Much, indeed, happened then; but for
me everything else paled before one occurrence. In Allahabad
my mother was in a procession which was stopped by the police

1 Thomas Moore.

BALLYHOO

335

and later charged with lathis . When the procession had been
halted some one brought her a chair, and she was sitting on
this pn the road at the head of the procession. Some people
who were especially looking after her, including my secretary,
were arrested and removed, and then came the police charge.
My mother was knocked down from her chair, and was hit
repeatedly on the head with canes. Blood came out of an open
wound in the head; she fainted, and lay on the roadside, which
had now been cleared of the processionists and public. After
some time she was picked up and brought by a police officer
in his car to Anand Bhawan.

That night a false rumour spread in Allahabad that my
mother had died. Angry crowds gathered together, forgot
about peace and non-violence, and attacked the police. There
was firing by the police, resulting in the death of some people.

When the news of all this came to me some days after the
occurrence (for we had a weekly paper), the thought of my frail
old mother lying bleeding on the dusty road obsessed me, and
I wondered how I would have behaved if I had been there.
How far would my non-violence have carried me? Not very
far, I fear, for that sight would have made me forget the lone
lesson I had tried to learn for more than a dozen years; and
I would have recked little of the consequences, personal or
national.

Slowly she recovered, and when she came to see me next
month in Bareilly Gaol she was still bandaged up. But she was
full of joy and pride at having shared with our volunteer boys
and girls the privilege of receiving cane and lathi blows. Her
recovery, however, was more apparent than real, and it seems
that the tremendous shaking that she received at her age upset
her system entirely and brought into prominence deep-seated
troubles, which a year later assumed dangerous proportions.

XLIII

IN BAREILLY AND DEHRA DUN GAOLS

After six weeks in Naini Prison I was transferred to the Bareilly
District Gaol. I was again keeping indifferent health and, much
to my annoyance, I used to get' a daily rise in temperature.
After four months spent in Bareilly, when the summer tem-
perature was almost at its highest, 1 was again transferred, this
time to a cooler place, Dehra Dun Gaol, at the foot of the
Himalayas. There I remained, without a break, for fourteen
and a half months, almost to the end of my two-year term.
News reached me, of course, from interviews and letters and
selected newspapers, but I was wholly out of touch with much
that was happening and had only a hazy notion of the principal
events.

When I was discharged I was kept busy with personal affairs
as well as the political situation as I found it then. After
a little more than five months of freedom I was brought back
to prison, and here I am still. Thus, during the last three years
I have been mostly in prison and out of touch with events,
and I have had little opportunity of making myself acquainted
in any detail with all that has happened during this period.
I have still the vaguest of knowledge as to what took place
behind the scenes at the second Round Table Conference, which
was attended by Gandhiji. I have had no chance so far of a
talk with him on this subject, nor of discussing with him or
others much that has happened since.

I do not know enough of those years 1932 and 1933 to
trace the development of our national struggle. But I knew
the stage and the background well and the actors also, and
had an instinctive appreciation of many a little thing that
happened. I could thus form a fair notion of the genera] course
of the struggle. For the first four months or so civil diso-
bedience functioned strongly and aggressively, and then there
was a gradual decline with occasional bursts. A direct action
struggle can only remain at a revolutionary pitch for a very
short time. It cannot remain static; it has to go up or down.
Civil disobedience, after the first flush, went down slowly, but
it could carry on at a lower level for long periods. In spite of
outlawry, the All-India Congress organisation continued to
function with a fair measure of success. It kept in touch

IN BAREILLY AND DXHRA DUN GAOLS 337

with its provincial workers, sent instructions, received reports,
occasionally gave financial assistance.

The provincial organisations also continued with more or less
success. I do not know much about other provinces during
those years when I was in prison, but I gathered some infor-
mation about U.P. activities after my release. The U.P. Con-
gress office functioned regularly right through 1932 and till the
middle of 1933, when civil disobedience was first suspended by
the then acting Congress president, on the advice of Gandhiji.
During this period frequent directions were sent to districts,
printed or cyclostyled bulletins issued regularly, district work
inspected from time to time, and our National Service workers
paid their allowances. Much of this work was necessarily secret
work; but the secretary of the Provincial Committee in charge
of the office, etc., was always working as such, publicly, till he
was arrested and removed and another took his place.

Our experience of 1930 and 193a showed that it was easily
possible for us to organise a secret network of information all
over India. Without much effort, and in spite of some oppo-
sition, good results were produced. But many of us had the
feeling that secrecy did not fit in with the spirit of civil diso-
bedience, and produced a damping effect on the mass conscious-
ness. As a small part of a big open mass-movement it was
useful, but there was always the danger, especially when the
movement was declining, of a few more or less ineffective secret
activities taking the place of the mass-movement. Gandhiji
condemned all secrecy in July 1933.

Agrarian no-tax movements flourished for some time in
Gujrat and the Kamatak, apart from the U.P. In both Gujrat
and Kamatak there were peasant proprietors who refused to
pay their revenue to the Government, and suffered greatly
because of this. Some effort, necessarily inadequate, was made
on behalf of the Congress to help the sufferers and relieve the
misery caused by the ejectments and confiscation of property.
In the U.P. no effort to help the dispossessed tenantry in this
way was made by the Provincial Congress. Thfc problem here
was a much vaster one (tenants are far more numerous than
peasant proprietors), the area was much bigger, and the pro-
vincial resources were very limited. It was quite impossible for
us to help scores of thousands who had suffered because of
the campaign, and equally difficult for us to draw a line between
them and the vast numbers who were always on the starvation
line. To help a few thousands only would have led to trouble
and bad blood. So we decided not to give financial assis-
ts

338 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

tance, and we broadcasted this fact right at the beginning, and
our position was thoroughly appreciated by the peasantry. It
was wonderful how much they put up with without complaint
or murmur. Of course, we tried to help individuals where we
could, especially the wives and children of workers who went
to prison. Such is the poverty of this unhappy country that
even one rupee per month was a godsend.

Right through this period the U.P. Provincial Committee
(which was, of course, a proscribed body) continued to pay the
usual meagre allownances to its paid workers; and if they went
to prison, as all of them did in turn, to support their families.
This was a major item in its budget. Then came the charge
for printing and duplicating leaflets and bulletins; this also
was a heavy charge. Travelling expenses formed another
principal item, and some grants had to be given to the less
prosperous districts. In spite of all these and other expenses
during a period of intensive mass-struggle against a powerful
and entrenched government, the total expenditure of the U.P.
Provincial Committee for twenty months from January 193a to
the end of August 1933 were about Rs. 63,000, that is about
Rs.3140 per month. (This figure does not include the separate
expenditure of some of the strong and more prosperous district
committees like Allahabad, Agra, Cawnpore, Lucknow.) As a
province, the U.P. kept in the very forefront of the struggle
right through 1931 and 1933, and I think, considering the
results obtained, it is remarkable how little it spent. It would be
interesting to compare with this modest figure the provincial
Government’s special expenditure to crush civil disobedience.
I imagine (though I have no knowledge) that some of the other
major Congress provinces spent much more. But Behar was,
from the Congress view-point, an even poorer province than its
neighbour, the U.P., and yet its part in the struggle was a
splendid one.

So, gradually, the civil disobedience movement declined; but
still it carried on, not without distinction. Progressively it
ceased to be a mass movement. Apart from the severity of
Government repression, the first severe blow to it came in Sep-
tember 1932 wnen Gandhi ji fasted for the first time on the
Harijcii issue. That fast roused mass consciousness, but it
directUNtiji ahother direction. Civil disobedience was finally
Jrilled for all practical purposes by the suspension of it in May
1933. It continued after that more in theory than in practice.
It is no doubt true that, even without that suspension, it would
hav e gradually petered out. India was numbed by the violence

IN BAREILLY AND DEHRA DUN GAOLS 339

and harshness of repression. The nervous energy of the nation
as a whole was for the moment exhausted, and it was not being
re-charged. Individually there were still many who could carry
on civil resistance, but they functioned in a somewhat artificial
atmosphere.

It was not pleasant for us in prison to learn of this slow decay
of a great movement. And yet very few of us had expected a
flashing success. There was always an odd chance that some-
thing flashing might happen if there was an irrepressible up-
heaval of the masses. But that was not to be counted upon,
and so we looked forward to a long struggle with ups and
downs and many a stalemate in between, and a progressive
strengthening of the masses in discipline and united action and
ideology. Sometimes in those early days of 1932 I almost feared
a quick and spectacular success, for this seemed to lead inevit-
ably to a compromise leaving the ‘ Governmentarians ' and
opportunists at the top. The experience of 1931 had been
revealing. Success to be worth while should come when the
people generally were strong enough and clear enough in their
ideas to take advantage of it. Otherwise the masses would fight
and sacrifice and, at the psychological moment, others would
step in gracefully and gather the spoils. There was grave
danger of this, because in the Congress itself there was a great
deal of loose thinking and no clear ideas as to what system of
government or society we were driving at. Some Congressmen,
indeed, did not think of changing the existing system of
government much, but simply of replacing the British or alien
element in it by the swadeshi brand.

The ‘ Governmentarians ’ of the pure variety did not matter
much, for their first article of faith was subservience to the
State authority whatever it was. But even the Liberals and
Responsivists accepted the ideology of the British Government
almost completely; and their occasional criticism, such as it was,
was thus wholly ineffective and valueless. It was well known
that they were legalists at any price, and as such they could not
welcome civil resistance. But they went much further, and
more or less ranged themselves on the side of the Government.
They were almost silent and rather frightened spectators of
the complete suppression of civil liberties of all kinds. It was
not merely a question of civil disobedience being countered and
suppressed by the Government, but of all political life and public
activity being stopped, and hardly a voice was raised against
this. Those who usually stood for these liberties were involved
in the struggle itself, and they took the penalties for refusing to

34 ° JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

submit to the State’s coercion. Others were cowed into abject
submission, and hardly raised their voices in criticism. Mild
criticism, when it was indulged in, was apologetic in tone and
was accompanied by strong denunciation of the Congress and
those who were carrying on the struggle.

In Western countries a strong public opinion has been built
up in favour of civil liberties, and any limitation of them is
resented and opposed. (Perhaps this is past history now.) There
are large numbers of people who, though not prepared to par*
ticipate in strong and direct action themselves, care enough for
the liberty of speech and writing. Assembly and Organisation,
person and Press, to agitate for them ceaselessly and thus help
to check the tendency of the State to encroach upon them.
The Indian Liberals claim to some extent to carry on the
traditions of British Liberalism (although they have nothing
in common with them except the name), and might have been
expected to put up some intellectual opposition to the sup-
pression of these liberties, for they suffered from this also. But
they played no such part. It was not for them to say with
Voltaire : “ I disagree absolutely with what you say, but I will
defend to the death your right to say it.”

It is not perhaps fair to blame them for this, for they have
never stood out as the champions of democracy or liberty, and
they had to face a situation in which a loose word might have
got them into trouble. It is more pertinent to observe the
reactions of those andent lovers of liberty, the British Liberals,
and the new socialists of the British Labour Party to repression
in India. They managed to contemplate the Indian scene with
a certain measure of equanimity, painful as it was, and some-
times thdr satisfaction at the success of the "scientific appli-
cation of repression,” as a correspondent of the Manchester
Guardian put it, was evident. Recently the National Govern-
ment of Great Britain has sought to pass a Sedition Bill, and
a great deal of criticism has been directed to it, espedally from
Liberals and Labourites on the ground, inter alia, that it
restricts free speech and gives magistrates the right of issuing
warrants for searches. Whenever I read this critidsm I sym-
pathised with it, and I had at the same time the picture of
India before me, where the actual laws in force to-day are
approximately a hundred times worse than the British Sedition
Bill seeks to enact. I wondered how it was that Britishers who
strain at a gnat in England could swallow a camel in India
without turning a hair. Indeed I have always wondered at and
admired the astonishing knack of the British people of

IN BAREILLY AND DEHRA DUN GAOLS 341

making their moral standards correspond with their material
interests, and of seeing virtue in everything that advances
their imperial designs. Mussolini and Hitler are condemned by
them in perfect good faith and with righteous indignation for
their attacks on liberty and democracy; and, in equal good
faith, similar attacks and deprivation of liberty in India seem
to them as necessary, and the highest moral reasons are ad*
vanced to show that true disinterested behaviour on their part
demands them.

While fire raged all over India and men’s and women’s souls
were put to the test, far away in London the chosen ones
forgathered to draw up a constitution for India. There was
the third Round Table Conference in 1932 and numerous com*
mittees, and large numbers of members of the Legislative
Assembly angled for membership of these committees so that
they might urns combine public duty with private pleasure.
Quite a crowd went at the public expense. Later, in 1933, came
the Joint Committee with its Indian assessors, and again free
passages were provided by a benevolent Government to those
who went as witnesses. Many people crossed the seas again at
public cost in their earnest desire to serve India, and some, it
was stated, even haggled for more passage money.

It was not surprising to see these representatives of vested
interests, frightened by the mass movements of India in action,
gathering together in London under the aegis of British im-
perialism. But it hurt the nationalism in us to see any Indian
behave in this way when the mother country was involved in
a life-and-death struggle. And yet from one point of view it
seemed to many of us a good thing, for it separated once and for
all, as we thought (wrongly, it now appears), the reactionary
from the progressive elements in India. This sifting would help
in the political education of the masses, and make it clearer
still to all concerned, that only through independence could we
hope to face social issues and raise the burdens from the
masses.

But it was surprising to find how far these people had
alienated themselves, not only in their day-to-day lives, but
morally and mentally, from the Indian masses. There were
no links with them, no understanding of them or of that inner
urge which was driving them to sacrifice and suffering. Reality
for these distinguished statesmen consisted of one thing—
British imperial power, which could not be successfully chal-
lenged and therefore should be accepted with good or bad
grace. It did not seem to strike them that it was quite im-

34 *

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

possible for them to solve India’s problem or draw up a real
live constitution without the goodwill of the masses. Mr. J. A.
Spender, in his recent Short History of Our Times , refers to the
failure of the Irish Joint Conference of 1910 which sought to
end the constitutional crisis. He says that the political leaders
who were trying to find a constitution in the midst of a crisis
were like men trying to insure a house when it is on fire. The
fire in India in 193a and 1933 was far greater than in Ireland
in 1910, and even though the flames die down, the burning
embers will remain for a long time, hot and unquenchable as
India's will to freedom.

In India there was an amazing growth of the spirit of
violence in official circles. The tradition was an old one, and
the country had been governed by the British mainly as a
police State. The overriding outlook even of the civilian ruler
had been military; there was always a touch of a hostile army
occupying alien and conquered soil. This mentality grew
because of the serious challenge to the existing order. The
occasional acts of terrorism in Bengal or elsewhere fed this
official violence, and gave it some justification for its own acts.
The various ordinances and the Government policy gave such
tremendous power to the executive and the police, that in
effect India was under Police Raj and there were hardly any
checks.

To a greater or less degree all the provinces of India went
through this fire of fierce repression, but the Frontier Province
and Bengal suffered most. The Frontier Province had always
been a predominantly military area, administered under semi-

1 moi 1

UlililOir-ljlf

the 4 Redshirt ’ movement had thoroughly upset the Govern*
ment. Military columns were very much in evidence in the
4 pacification ’ of the province, and in dealing with 4 recalcitrant
villages’. It was a common practice all over India to impose
heavy collective fines on villages, and occasionally (in Bengal
especially) on towns. Punitive police were often stationed, and
police excesses were inevitable' when they had enormous powers
and no checks. We had typical instances of the lawlessness and
disorderliness of law and order.

Parts of Bengal presented the most extraordinary spectacle.
Government treated the whole populations (or, to be exact, the
Hindu population) as hostile, and everyone — man, woman,
boy or girl between is and 25 — had to carry identity 1 cards.
There were extemments and internments nTtne mass, dress
was regulated, schools were regulated or dosed, bicycles were

IN BAREILLY AND DEHRA DUN CAOLS

343

not allowed, movements had to be reported to the police,
curfew, sunset law, military marches, punitive police, collective
fines, and a host of other rules and regulations. Large areas
seemed to be in a continuous state of siege, and the inhabitants
were little better than ticket-of-leave men and women under
the strictest surveillance. Whether, from the point of view of
the British Government, all these amazing provisions and regu-
lations were necessary or not, it is not for me to judge. If they
were not necessary, then that Government must be held guilty
of a grave offence in oppressing and humiliating and causing
great loss to the populations of whole areas. If they were
necessary then surely that is the final verdict on British rule in
India.

The spirit of violence pursued our people even within the
gaols. The class division of prisoners was a fqrce, and often
a torture for those who were put in an upper class. Very few
went to these upper classes, and many a sensitive man and
woman had to submit to conditions which were a continuing
agony. The deliberate policy of Government seems to have
been to make the lot of political prisoners worse than that of
ordinary convicts. An Inspector-General of Prisons went to the
length of issuing a confidential circular to all the prisons, point-
ing out that Civil Disobedience prisoners must be “ dealt with
grimly.” 1 Whipping became a frequent gaol punishment. On
April 27, 1933, the Under Secretary for India stated in the House
of Commons “ that Sir Samuel Hoare was aware that over 500
persons in India were whipped during 1932 for offences in con-
nection with the civil disobedience movement.” It is not clear if
this figure includes the many whippings in prisons for breaches
of gaol discipline. As news of frequent whippings came to us in
prison in 1932, 1 remembered our protest and our three-day fast
in December 1930 against one or two odd instances of whip-
ping. I had felt shocked then at the brutality of it, and now
I was still shocked and there was a dull pain inside me, but it
did not strike me that I should protest and fast again. I felt
much more helpless in the matter. The mind gets blunted to

1 This circular was dated June 30, 1932, and it contained the
following : “ The Inspector-General impresses upon Superintendents
and gam subordinates the fact that there is no justification for
preferential treatment in favour of Civil Disobedience Movement
prisoners as such. This class require to be kept in their places and
dealt with grimly.”

344 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

brutality after a while. A bad thing has only to continue for
lone for the world to get used to it.

The hardest of labour was given to our men in prison — mills,
oil-presses, etc. — and their lot was made as unbearable as pos-
sible in order to induce them to apologise and be released on an
undertaking being given to Government. That was considered
a great triumph for the gaol authorities.

Most of these gaol punishments fell to the lot of boys and
young men, who resented coercion and humiliation. A fine and
spirited lot of boys they were, full of self-respect and ‘ pep ’ and
the spirit of adventure, the kind that in an English public
school or university would have received every encouragement
and praise. Here in India their youthful idealism and pride led
them to fetters and solitary confinement and whipping.

The lot of our womenfolk in prison was especially hard
and painful to contemplate. They were mostly middle-class
women, accustomed to a sheltered life, and suffering chiefly
from the many repressions and customs produced by a society
dominated to his own advantage, by man. The call of freedom
had always a double meaning for them, and the enthusiasm
and energy with which they threw themselves into the struggle
had no doubt their springs in the vague and hardly conscious,
but nevertheless intense, desire to rid themselves of domestic
slavery also. Excepting a very few, they were classed as
ordinary prisoners and placed with the most degraded of com-
panions, and often under horrid conditions. I was once lodged
m a barrack next to a female enclosure, a wall separating us.
In that enclosure there were, besides other convicts, some
women political prisoners, including one who had been my
hostess and in whose house I had once stayed. A high wall
separated us, but it did not prevent me from listening in horror
to the language and curses which our friends had to put up
with from the women convict warders.

It was very noticeable that the treatment of political prisoners
in 1932 and 1933 was worse than it had been two years earlier,
in 1930. This could not have been due merely to the whims of
individual officers, and the only reasonable inference seems to
be that this was the deliberate policy of the Government. Even
apart from political prisoners, the United Provinces Gaol
Department had had the reputation in those years of being
very much against anything that might savour of humanity.
We had an interesting instance of this from an unimpeachable
source. A distinguished gaol visitor, a gallant knight, not a
rebel and a sedition-monger like us, but one whom the Govern-

IN BAREILLY AND DEHRA DUN GAOLS 345

meat had delighted to honour, paid us a visit once in prison.
He told us that some months earlier he had visited another
gaol, and in his inspection not£ had described the gaoler as
a “ humane disciplinarian.” The gaoler in question begged him
not to say anything about his humanity, as this was at a dis-
count in official circles. But the knight insisted, as he could
not conceive that any harm would befall the gaoler because of
his description. Result: soon after the gaoler was transferred
to a distant and out-of-the-way place, which was in the nature
of a punishment to him.

Some gaolers, who were considered to be particularly fierce
and unscrupulous, were promoted and given titles. Graft is
such a universal phenomenon in gaols thar hardly any one
keeps clear of it. But my own experience, and that of many
of my friends, has been that the worst offenders among the
gaol staff are usually those who pose as strict disciplinarians.

I have been fortunate in gaol and outside, and almost every one
I have come across has given me courtesy and consideration,
even when perhaps I did not deserve them. One incident in
gaol, however, caused me and my people much pain. My
mother, Kamala and Indira, my daughter, had gone to inter-
view my brother-in-law, Ranjit Pandit, m the Allahabad District
Gaol and, for no fault of theirs, they were insulted and hustled
out by the gaoler. I was grieved when I learnt of this, and
the reaction of the Provincial Government to it shocked me. To
avoid the possibility of my mother being insulted by gaol
officials, I decided to give up all interviews. For nearly seven
months, while I was in Dehm Dun Gaol, I had no interview.

XLI V

PRISON HUMOURS

Two of us were transferred together from the Bareilly District
Gaol to the Dehra Dun Gaol— -Govind Ballabh Pant and I. To
avoid the possibility of a demonstration, we were not put on the
train at Bareilly, but at a wayside station fifty miles out. We were
taken secretly by motor-car at night, and, after many months cf
seclusion, that drive through the cool night air was a rare delight.

Before we left Bareilly Gaol, a little incident took place which
moved me then and is yet fresh in my memory. The Superinten-
dent of Police of Bareilly, an Englishman, was present there,
and, as I got into the car, he handed to me rather shyly a packet
which he told me contained old German illustrated magazines.
He said that he had heard that I was learning German and so
he had brought these magazines for me. I had never met him
before, nor have I seen him since. I do not even know his name.
This spontaneous act of courtesy and the kindly thought that
prompted it touched me and I felt very grateful to him.

During that long midnight drive I mused over the relations of
Englishmen and Indians, of ruler and ruled, of official and non-
official, of those in authority and those who have to obey. What
a great gulf divided the two races, and how they distrusted and
disliked each other. But more than the distrust and the dislike
was the ignorance of each other, and, because of this, each side
was a little afraid of the other and was constantly on its guard in
the other’s presence. To each, the other appeared as a sour-looking,
unamiable creature, and neither realised that there was decency
and kindliness behind the mask. As the rulers of the land, with
enormous patronage at their command, the English had attracted
to themselves crowds of cringing place-hunters and opportunists,
and they judged of India from these unsavoury specimens. The
Indian saw the Englishman function only as an official with all
the inhumanity of the machine and with all the passion of a
vested interest trying to preserve itself. How different was the
behaviour of a person acting as an individual and obeying his
own impulses from his behaviour as an official or a unit in an
army. The soldier, stiffening to attention, drops his humanity,
and, acting as an automaton, shoots and kills inoffensive and
harmless persons who have done him no ill. So also, I thought,
the police officer who would hesitate to do an unkindness to an

346

PRISON HUMOURS

347

individual would, the day after, direct a lathi charge on inno-
cent people. He would not think of himself as an individual
then, nor will he consider as individuals those crowds whom he
beats down or shoots.

As soon as one begins to think of the other side as a mass or
a crowd, the human link seems to go. We forget that crowds
also consist of individuals, of men and women and children,
who love and hate and suffer. An average Englishman, if he
was frank, would probably confess that he knows some quite
decent Indians, but they are exceptions, and as a whole Incuans
are a detestable crowd. The average Indian would admit that
some Englishmen whom he knows were admirable, but, apart
from these few, the English were an overbearing, brutal, and
thoroughly bad lot. Curious how each person judges of the
other race, not from the individual with whom he has come in
contact, but from others about whom he knows very little or
nothing at all.

Personally, I have been very fortunate and, almost invariably,
I have received courtesy from my own countrymen as well as
from the English. Even my gaolers and the policemen, who
have arrested me or escorted me as a prisoner from place to
place, have been kind to me, and much of the bitterness of
conflict and the sting of gaol life has been toned down because
of this human touch. It was not surprising that my own coun-
trymen should treat me so, for I had gained a measure of
notoriety and popularity among them. Even for Englishmen I
was an individual and not merely one of the mass, and, I
imagine, the fact that I had received my education in England,
and especially my having been to an English public school,
brought me nearer to them. Because of this, they could not help
considering me as more or less civilised after their own pattern,
however perverted my public activities appeared to be. Often I
felt a little embarrassed and humiliated because of this special
treatment when I compared my lot with that of most of my
colleagues.

Despite all these advantages that I had, gaol was gaol, and
the oppressive atmosphere of the place was sometimes almost
unbearable. The very air of it was full of violence and mean-
ness and graft and untruth; there was either cringing or cursing.
A person who was at all sensitive was in a continuous state of
tension. Trivial occurrences would upset one. A piece of bad
news in a letter, some item in the newspaper, would make one
almost ill with anxiety or anger for a while. Outside there was
always relief in action, and various interests and activities pro-

348 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

duced an equilibrium of the mind and body. In prison there
was no ouriet and one felt bottled up and repressed,, and, in-
evitably, one took one-sided and rather distorted views of
happenings. Illness in gaol was particularly distressing.

And yet I managed to accustom myself to the gaol routine,
and with physical exercise and fairly hard mental work kept fit.
Whatever the value of work and exercise might be outside, they
are essential in gaol, for without them one is apt to go to pieces.
I adhered to a strict time-table and, in order to keep up to the
mark, I carried on with as many normal habits as I could, such
as the daily shave (I was allowed a safety razor). I mention this
minor matter because, as a rule, people gave it up and slacked in
other ways. After a hard day’s work, the evening found me
pleasantly tired and sleep was welcomed.

And so the days passed, and the weeks and the months. But
sometimes a month would stick terribly and would not end, or
so it seemed. And sometimes I would feel bored and fed up and
angry with almost everything and everybody — with my com-
panions in prison, with the gaol staff, with people outside for
something they had done or not done, with the British Empire
(but this was a permanent feeling), and above all with myself. I
would become a bundle of nerves, very susceptible to various
humours caused by gaol life. Fortunately I recovered soon from
these humours.

Interview days were the red-letter days in gaol. How one
longed for them and waited for them and counted the days!
Ana after the excitement of the interview there was the
inevitable reaction and a sense of emptiness and loneliness. If,
as sometimes happened, the interview was not a success, because
of some bad news which upset me, or some other reason, I would
feel miserable afterwards. There were gaol officials present of
course at the interviews, but two or three times at Bareilly there
was in addition a C.I.D. man present with paper and pencil,
eagerly taking down almost every word of the conversation. I
found this exceedingly irritating, and these interviews were
complete failures.

And then I gave up these precious interviews because of the
treatment my mother and wife had received in the course of an
interview in the Allahabad Gaol and afterwards from the
Government. For nearly seven months I had no interview.
It was adreary time for me, and when at the end of that period
I decided to resume interviews and my people came to see me,
I was almost intoxicated with the joy of it. My sister’s little
Children also came to see me, and when a tiny one wanted to

PRISON HUMOURS

349

mount on my shoulder, as she used to do, it was more than my
emotions could stand. That touch of home life, after the long
yearning for human contacts, upset me.

When in t ervie ws s n apped, the fortnightly letters from home or
from some other gaol (for both my sisters were in prison^
became all the more precious and eagerly expected. If the letr r
did not come on the appointed day I was worried. And yet
when it did come, I almost hesitated to open it. I played about
with it as one does with an assured pleasure, and at the back of
my mind there was also a trace of fear lest the letter contain
any news or reference which might annoy me. Letter writing
and receiving in gaol were always serious incursions on a peace*
fill and unruffled existence. They produced an emotional state
which was disturbing, and for a day or two afterwards one’s mind
wandered and it was difficult to concentrate on the day’s work.

In Naini Prison and Bareilly Gaol I had several companions.
In Dehra Dun there were three of us to bain with— Govind
Ballabh Pant, Kunwar Anand Singh of Kashipur and I — but
Pantji was discharged after a couple of months on the expiry
of his six months. Two others joined us later. By the begin-
ning of January 1933 all my companions had left me and I was
alone. For nearly eight months, till my discharge at the end of
August, I lived a solitary life in Dehra Dun Gaol with hardly
any one to talk to, except some member of the gaol staff for a
few minutes daily. This was not technically solitary confine-
ment, but it was a near approach to it, and it was a dreary
period for me. Fortunately I had resumed my interviews, and
they brought some relief. As a special favour, I suppose, I was
allowed to receive fresh flowers from outside and to keep a few
photographs, and they cheered me greatly. Ordinarily, flowers
and photographs are not permitted, and on several occasions I
have not been allowed to receive the flowers that had been sent
for me. Attempts to brighten up the cells were not encouraged,
and I remember a superintendent of a gaol once objecting to
the manner in which a companion of mine, whose cell was next
to mine, had arranged his toilet articles. He was told that he
must not make his cell look attractive and " luxurious ”. The
articles of luxury were: a tooth brush, tooth paste, fountain-
pen ink, a bottle of hair oil, a brush and comb, and perhaps
one or two other little things.

One begins to appreciate the value of the little things of life
in prison. One’s belongings are so few and they cannot easily
be added to or replaced, and one clings to them and gathers up
odd bits of things which, in the world outside, would go to the

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

35 °

waste-paper basket. The property sense does not leave one even
when there is nothing worth while to own and keep.

Sometimes a physical longing would come for the soft things
of life — bodily comfort, pleasant surroundings, the company of
friends, interesting conversation, games with children. ... A
picture or a paragraph in a newspaper would bring the old days
vividly before one, carefree days of youth, and a nostalgia
would seize one, and the day would be passed in restlessness.

I used to spin a little daily, for I found some manual occupa-
tion soothing and a relief from too much intellectual work. My
main occupation, however, was reading and writing. I could not
have all the books I wanted, as there were restrictions and a
censorship, and the censors were not always very competent for
the job. Spengler’s Decline of the West was held up because
the title looked dangerous and seditious. But I must not com-
plain, for I had, on the whole, a goodly variety of books. Again
I seem to have been a favoured person, and many of my col-
leagues (A Class prisoners) had the greatest difficulty in getting
books on current topics. In Benares Gaol, I was told, even the
official White Paper, containing the British Government's con-
stitutionalproposals, was not allowed in, as it dealt with political
matters. The only books that British officials heartily recom-
mended were religious books or novels. It is wonderful how dear
to the heart of the British Government is the subject of religion
and how impartially it encourages all brands of it.

When the most ordinary civil liberties have been curtailed in
India, it is hardly pertinent to talk of a prisoner's rights. And
yet the subject is worthy of consideration. If a court of law
sentences a person to imprisonment, does it follow that not only
his body but also his mind should be incarcerated? Why should
not the minds of prisoners be free even though their bodies are
not? Those in charge of the prison administrations in India will
no doubt be horrified at such a question, for their capacity for
new ideas and sustained thought is usually limited. Censorship
is bad enough at any time and is partisan and stupid. In India
it deprives us of a great deal of modern literature and advanced
journals and newspapers. The list of proscribed books is exten-
sive and is frequently added to. To add to all this, the prisoner
has to suffer a second and a separate censorship, and thus many
books and* newspapers that can be legally purchased and read
outside the prison may not reach him.

Some time ago this question arose in the United States, in the
famous Sing Sine Prison of New York, where some Communist
newspapers had been banned. The feeling against Communists

PRISON RUMOURS

35 «

is very strong among the ruling classes in America, but in spite
of this the prison authorities agreed that the inmates of the
prison could receive any publication which they desired, includ-
ing Communist newspapers and magazines. The sole exception
made by the Warden was in the case of cartoons which he
regarded as inflammatory.

It is a little absurd to discuss this question of freedom oi
mind in prison in India when, as it happens, the vast majority
of the prisoners are not allowed any newspapers or writing
materials. It is not a question of censorship but of total denial.
Only A Class (or in Bengal, Division I) prisoners are allowed
writing materials as a matter of course, and not even all these are
allowed daily newspapers. The daily newspaper allowed is of the
Government’s choice. B and C Class prisoners, politicals and
non-politicals, are not supposed to have writing materials. The
former may sometimes get them as a very special privilege,
which is frequently withdrawn. Probably the proportion of
A Class prisoners to the others is one to a thousand, and they
might well be excluded in considering the lot of prisoners in
India. But it is well to remember that even these favoured
A Class convicts have far less privileges in regard to books
and newspapers than the ordinary prisoners in most civilised
countries.

For the rest, the 999 in every thousand, two or three books
are permitted at a time, but conditions are such that they
cannot always take advantage of this privilege. Writing or the
taking of notes of books read are dangerous pastimes in which
they must not indulge. This deliberate discouragement of in-
tellectual development is curious and revealing. From the point
of ^ view of reclaiming a prisoner and of making him a fit
citizen, his mind should be approached and diverted, and he
should be made literate and taught some craft. But this point
of view has perhaps not struck the prison authorities in India.
Certainly it has been conspicuous by its absence in the United
Provinces. Recently attempts has been made to teach reading
and writing to the boys and young men in prison, but they are
wholly ineffective, and the men in charge of them have no
competence. Sometimes it is said that convicts are averse to
learning. My own experience has been the exact opposite, and
I found many of them, who came to me for the purpose, to
have a perfect passion for learning to read and write. We used
to teach such convicts as came our way, and they worked hard;
and sometimes when I woke up in the middle of the night I
was surprised to find one or two of them sitting by a diin

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

lantern inside their barrack, learning their lessons for the next
day.

So I occupied myself with my books, going from one type of
reading to another, but usually sticking to ‘heavy’ books.
Novels made one feel mentally slack, and I did not read many
of them. Sometimes I would weary of too much reading, ana
then I would take to writing. My historical series of letters to
my daughter kept me occupied right through my two-year
term, and they helped me very greatly to keep mentally fit.
To some extent I lived through the past I was writing about
and almost forgot about my gaol surroundings.

Travel books were always welcome— records of old travellers,
Hiuen Tsang, and Marco Polo, and Ibn Battuta and others, and
moderns like Sven Hedin, with his journeys across the deserts
of Central Asia, and Roerich, finding strange adventures in
Tibet. Picture books also, especially of mountains and glaciers
and deserts, for in prison one hungers for wide spaces and seas
and mountains. I had some beautiful picture books of Mont
Blanc, the Alps, and the Himalayas, ana 1 turned to them often
and gazed at the glaciers when the temperature of my cell or
barrack was ii5°F. or even more. An atlas was an exciting
affair. It brought all manner of past memories and dreams of
places we had visited and places we had wanted to go to. And
the longing to go again to those haunts of past days, and visit
all the other inviting marks and dots that represented great
cities, and cross the shaded regions that were mountains, and
the blue patches that were seas, and to see the beauties of the
world, and watch the struggles and conflicts of a changing
humanity— the longing to do all this would seize us and dutch
us by the throat, and we would hurriedly and sorrowfully put
the atlas by, and return to the well-known walls that sur-
rounded us and the dull routine that was our daily lot.

XLV

ANIMALS IN PRISON

For fourteen and a half months I lived in my little cell or
room in the Dehra Dun Gaol, and I began to reel as if I was
almost a part of it. I was familiar with every bit of it; I knew
every mark and dent on the whitewashed walls and on the
uneven floor and the ceiling with its moth-eaten rafters. In the
little yard outside I greeted little tufts of grass and odd bits of
stone as old friends. I was not alone in my cell, for several
colonies of wasps and hornets lived there, and many lizards
found a home behind the rafters, emerging in the evenings in
search of prey. If thoughts and emotions leave their traces
behind in the physical surroundings, the very air of that cell
must be thick with them, and they must cling to every object
in that little space.

I had had better cells in other prisons, but in Dehra Dun I
had one privilege which was very precious to me. The gaol
proper was a very small one, and we were kept in an old
lock-up outside the gaol walls, but within the gaol compound.
This place was so small that there was no room to walk about
in it, and so we were allowed, morning and evening, to go out
and walk up and down in front of the gate, a distance of
about a hundred yards. We remained in the gaol compound,
but this coming outside the walls gave us a view of the moun-
tains and the fields and a public road at some distance. This
was not a special privilege for me; it was common for all the
A and B Class prisoners kept at Dehra Dun. Within the com-
pound, but outside the gaol walls, there was another small
building called the European Lock-up. This had no enclosing
wall, and a person inside the cell could have a fine view of the
mountains and the life outside. European convicts and others
kept here were also allowed to walk in front of the gaol gate
every morning and evening.

Only a prisoner who has been confined for long behind high
walls can appreciate the extraordinary psychological value of
these outside walks and open views. I loved these outings, and
I did not give them up even during the monsoon, when the
rain came down for days in torrents and I had to walk in
ankle-deep of water. I would have welcomed the outing in any
place, but the sight of the towering Himalayas near by was an

353

354 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

added joy which went a long way to removing the weariness
of prison. It was my good fortune that during the long period
when I had no interviews, and when for many months I was
quite alone, I could gaze at these mountains that I loved. I
could not see the mountains from my cell, but my mind was
full of them and I was ever conscious of their nearness, and a
secret intimacy seemed to grow between us.

“ Flocks of birds have flown high and away;

A solitary drift of cloud, too, has gone, wandering on.

And I sit alone with Ching-ting Peak, towering beyond.

We never grow tired of each other, the mountain and I.”

I am afraid I cannot say with the poet, Li T’ai Po, that I
never grew weary, even of the mountain; but that was a rare
experience, and, as a rule, I found great comfort in its
proximity. Its solidity and imperturbability looked down upon
me with the wisdom of a million years, and mocked at my
varying humours and soothed my fevered mind.

Spring was very pleasant in Dehra, and it was a far longer
one than in the plains below. The winter had denuded almost
all the trees of their leaves, and they stood naked and bare.
Even four magnificent peepal trees, which stood in front of the
gaol gate, much to my surprise, dropped nearly all their leaves.
Gaunt and cheerless they stood there, till the spring air warmed
them up again and sent a message of life to their innermost
cells. Suddenly there was a stir both in the peepals and the
other trees, and an air of mystery surrounded them as of
secret operations going on behind the scenes; and I would be
startled to find little bits of green peeping out all over them.
It was a gay and cheering sight. And then, very rapidly, the
leaves would come out in their millions and glisten in the sun-
light and play about in the breeze. How wonderful is the
sudden change from bud to leaf!

I had never noticed before that fresh mango leaves are
reddish-brown, russet coloured, remarkably like the autumn
tints on the Kashmir hills. But they change colour soon and
become green.

The monsoon rains were always welcome, for they , ended the
summer heat. But one could have too much of a good thine,
and Dehra Dun is one of the favoured haunts of the rain god.
Within the first five or six weeks of the break of the monsoon
we would have about fifty or sixty inches of rain, and it was
not pleasant to sit cooped up in a little narrow place trying to

ANIMALS IN PRISON 355

avoid the water dripping from the ceiling or rushing in from
the windows.

Autumn again was pleasant, and so was the winter, except
when it rained. With thunder and rain and piercing cold
winds, one longed for a decent habitation and a little warmth
and comfort. Occasionally there would be a hailstorm, with
hailstones bigger than marbles coming down on the corrugated
iron roofs and making a tremendous noise, something like an
artillery bombardment.

I remember one day particularly; it was the 24th of Decern*
ber, 1932. There was a thunderstorm and rain all day, and it
was bitterly cold. Altogether it was one of the most miserable
days, from the bodily point of view, that I have spent in gaol.
In the evening it cleared up suddenly, and all my misery de*
parted when I saw all the neighbouring mountains and hills
covered with a thick mantle of snow. The next day — Christ*
mas Day— was lovely and clear, and there was a beautiful view
of snow-covered mountains.

Prevented from indulging in normal activities we became
more observant of nature’s ways. We watched also the various
animals and insects that came our way. As I grew more
observant I noticed all manner of insects living in my cell or
in the little yard outside. I realised that while i complained of
loneliness, that yard, which seemed empty and deserted, was
teeming with life. All these creeping or crawling or flying in-
sects lived their life without interfering with me in any way,
and I saw no reason why I should interfere with them. But
there was continuous war between me and bed-bugs, mosquitos,
and, to some extent, flies. Wasps and hornets I tolerated, and
there were hundreds of them in my cell. There had been a
little tiff between us when, inadvertently I think, a wasp had
stung me. In my anger I tried to exterminate the lot, but they
put up a brave fight in defence of their temporary home, whicn
probably contained their eggs, and I desisted and decided to
leave them in peace if they did not interfere, with me any
more. For over a year after that I lived in that cell surrounded
by these wasps and hornets, and they never attacked me, and
we respected each other.

Bats I did not like, but I had to endure them. They flew
soundlessly in the evening dusk, and one could just see them
against the darkening sky. Eerie things; I had a horror of them.
They seemed to pass within an inch of one’s face, and I was
always afraid that they might hit me. Higher up in the air
passed the big bats, the flying-foxes.

3 56 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

I used to watch the ants and the white ants and other insects
by the hour. And the lizards as they crept about in the
evenings and stalked their prey and chased each other, wagging
their tails in a most comic fashion. Ordinarily they avoided
wasps, but twice I saw them stalk them with enormous care
and seize them from the front. I do not know if this avoidance
of the sting was intentional or accidental.

Then there were squirrels, crowds of them if trees were
about. They would become very venturesome and come right
near us. In Lucknow Gaol I used to sit reading almost without
moving for considerable periods, and a squirrel would climb
up my leg and sit on my knee and have a look round. And
then it would look into my eyes and realise that I was not a
tree or whatever it had taken me for. Fear would disable it
for a moment, and then it would scamper away. Little baby
squirrels would sometimes fall down from the trees. The
mother would come after them, roll them up into a little ball,
and carry them off to safety. Occasionally the baby got lost.
One of my companions picked up three of these lost baby
squirrels and looked after them. They were so tiny that it was
a problem how to feed them. The problem was, however,
solved rather ingeniously. A fountain-pen filler, with a little
cotton wool attached to it, made an efficient feeding bottle.

Pigeons abounded in all the gaols I went to, except in the
mountain prison of Almora. There were thousands of them,
and in the evenings the sky would be thick with them. Some-
times the gaol officials would shoot them down and feed on
them. There were mainas, of course; they are to be found
everywhere. A pair of them nested over my cell door in Dehra
Dun, and I used to feed them. They grew quite tame, and if
there was any delay in their morning or evening meal they
would sit quite near me and loudly demand their food. It was
amusing to watch their signs and listen to their impatient cries.

In Naini there were thousands of parrots, and large numbers
of them lived in the crevices of my barrack walls. Their court-
ship and love-making was always a fascinating sight, and
sometimes there were fierce quarrels between two male parrots
over a lady parrot, who sat calmly by waiting for the result of
the encounter and ready to grant her favours to the winner.

Dehra Dun had a variety of birds, and there was a regular
jumble of singing and lively chattering and twittering, and
High above it all came the koel’s plaintive call. During the
ilpbaioon and just before it the Brain-Fever bird visited us, and
t Realised soon why it was so named. It was amazing the per-

ANIMALS IN PRISON

357

sistence with which it went on repeating the same notes, in
daytime and at night, in sunshine and m pouring rain. We
could not see most of these birds, we could only hear them
as a rule, as there were no trees in our little yard. But I used
to watch the eagles and the kites gliding gracefully high up in
the air, sometimes swooping down and then allowing them*
selves to be carried up by a current of air. Often a horde of
wild duck would fly over our heads.

There was a large colony of monkeys in Bareilly Gaol and
their antics were always worth watching. One .incident im-
pressed me. A baby monkey managed to come down into our
barrack enclosure and he could not mount up the wall again.
The warder and some convict overseers and other prisoners
caught hold of him and tied a bit of string round his neck.
The parents (presumably) of the little one saw all this from
the top of the high wall, and their anger grew. Suddenly one
of them, a huge monkey, jumped down and charged almost
right into the crowd which surrounded the baby monkey. It
was an extraordinary brave thing to do, for the warder and
C.O.’s had sticks and lathis and they were brandishing them
about, and there was quite a crowd of them. Reckless courage
triumphed, and the crowd of humans fled, terrified, leaving
their sticks behind them! The little monkey was rescued.

We had often animal visitors that were not welcome.
Scorpions were frequently found in our cells, especially after
a thunderstorm. It was surprising that I was never stung by
one, for I would come across them in the most unlikely places —
on my bed, or sitting on a book which I had just lifted up. I
kept a particularly black and poisonous-looking brute in a
bottle for some time, feeding him with flies, etc., and then
when I tied him up on a wall with a string he managed to
escape. I had no desire to meet him loose again, and so I
cleaned my cell out and hunted for him everywhere, but he
had vanished. •

Three or four snakes were also found in my cells or near
them. News of one of them got out, and there were headlines
in the Press. As a matter of fact I welcomed the diversion.
Prison life is dull enough, and everything that breaks through
the monotony is appreciated. Not that I appreciate or welcome
snakes, but they do not fill me with terror as they do some
people. I am afraid of their bite, of course, and would protect
myself if I saw a snake. But there would be no feeling of
repulsion or overwhelming fright. Centipedes horrify me
much more; it is not so much fear as instinctive repulsion. In

358 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Alipore Gaol in Calcutta I woke in the middle of the night
and felt something crawling over my foot. I pressed a torch
I had and I saw a centipede on the bed. Instinctively and with
amazing rapidity I vaulted clear out of that bed and nearly hit
the cell wall. I realised fully then what Pavlov’s reflexes were.

In Dehra Dun I saw a new animal, or rather an animal which
was new to me. I was standing at the gaol gate talking to the
gaoler when we noticed a man outside carrying a strange
animal. The gaoler sent for him, and I saw something between
a lizard and a crocodile, about two feet long with claws and a
scaly covering. This uncouth animal, which was very much
alive, had been twisted round in a most peculiar way forming
a kind of knot, and its owner had passed a pole through this
knot and was merrily carrying it in this fashion. He called it
a “Bo." When asked by the gaoler what he proposed to do
with it, he replied with a broad smile that he would make
bhujji — a kind of curry — out of itl He was a forest-dweller.
Subsequently I discovered from reading F. W. Champion’s book
— The Jungle in Sunlight and Shadow — that this animal was
the Pangolin.

Prisoners, especially long-term convicts, have to suffer most
from emotional starvation. Often they seek some emotional
satisfaction by keeping animal pets. The ordinary prisoner can-
not keep them, but the convict overseers have a little more
freedom and the gaol staff usually does not object. The com-
monest pets were squirrels and, strangely, mongooses. Dogs
are not allowed in gaols, but cats seem to be encouraged. A
little kitten made friends with me once. It belonged to a gaol
official, and when he was transferred he took it away with him.
I missed it. Although dogs are not allowed, I got tied up with
some dogs accidentally in Dehra Dun. A gaol official had
brought a bitch, and then he was transferred, and he deserted
her. The poor thing became a homeless wanderer, living under
culverts, picking up scraps from the warders, usually starving.
As I was being kept in the lock-up outside the gaol proper, she
used to come to me begging for food. I began to teed her
regularly, and she gave birth to a litter of pups under a culvert.
Many of these were taken away, but three remained and I fed
them. One of the puppies fell ill with a violent distemper, and
gave me a great deal of trouble. I nursed her with care, and
sometimes I would get up a dozen times in the course of the
night to look after her. Sne survived, and I was happy that my
nursing had pulled her round.

> I came in contact with animals far more in prison than I had

ANIMALS IN PftlSON

359

done outside. I had always been fond of dogs, and had kept
some, but I cbuld never look after them properly as other
matters claimed my attention. In prison I was grateful for their
company. Indiana do not, as a rule, approve of animals as
household pets. It is remarkable that in spite of their general
philosophy of non-violence to animals, they are often singularly
careless and unkind to them. Even the cow, that favoured
animal, though looked up to and almost worshipped by many
Hindus and often the cause of riots, is not treated kindly.
Worship and kindliness do not always go together.

Different countries have adopted different animals as symbols
of their ambition or character — the eagle of the United States
of America and. of Germany, the lion and bulldog of England,
the fighting-cock of France, the bear of old Russia. How far
do these patron animals mould national character? Most of
them are aggressive, fighting animals, beasts of prey. It is not
surprising that the people who grow up with these examples
before them should mould themselves consciously after them
and strike up aggressive attitudes, and roar, and prey on others.
Nor is it surprising that the Hindu should be mild and non-
violent, for his patron animal is the cow.

XLVI

STRUGGLE

Outside, the struggle went on, and brave men and women
continued to defy peacefully a powerful and entrenched govern-
ment, though they knew that it was not for them to achieve in
the present or the near future. And repression without break
and with ever-increasing intensity, demonstrated the basis of
British rule in India. There was no camouflage about it now,
and this at least was some satisfaction to us. Bayonets were
triumphant, but a great warrior had once said that “you can
do everything with bayonets save sit on them.” It was better
that we should be governed thus, we thought, than that we
should sell our souls and submit to spiritual prostitution. We
were physically helpless in prison, but we felt we served our
cause even there, and served it better than many outside.
Should we, because of our weakness, sacrifice the future of
India to save ourselves? It was true that the limits of human
vitality and human strength were narrow, and many an indi-
vidual was physically disabled, or died, or fell out of the ranks,
or even betrayed the cause. But the cause went on despite set-
backs; there could be no failure if ideals remained undimmed
and spirits undaunted. Real failure was a desertion of principle,
a denial of our right, and an ignoble submission to wrong.
Self-made wounds always took longer to heal than those caused
by an adversary.

There was often a weariness at our weaknesses and at a world
gone awry, and yet there was a measure of pride for our
achievement. For our people had indeed behaved splendidly,
and it was good to feel oneself to be a member of a gallant
band.

During those years of civil disobedience two attempts were
made to hold open CongTess sessions, one at Delhi and the
other at Calcutta. It was obvious that an illegal organisation
could not meet normally and in peace, and any attempt at an
open session meant conflict with the police. The meetings were
in fact dispersed forcibly with the help of the lathi by the
police, and large numbers of people were arrested. The extra-
ordinary thing about these gatherings was the feet that
thousands came from all parts of India as delegates to these il-
legal gatherings. I was glad to learn that people from the United

STRUGGLE

36l

Provinces played a prominent part in both of them. My
mother also insisted on going to the Calcutta session at the
end of March 1933. She was arrested, however, together with
Pandit Malaviya and others, and detained in prison for a few
days at Asansol, on the way to Calcutta. I was amazed at the
energy and vitality she showed, frail and ailing as she was.
Prison was really of litde consequence to her; she had gone
through a harder ordeal. Her son and both her daughters
and others whom she loved spent long periods in prison,
and the empty house where she lived had become a n ig h tmare
to her.

As our struggle toned down and stabilised itself at a low
level there was little of excitement in it, except at long inter-
vals. My thoughts travelled more to other countries, and I
watched and studied, as far as I could in gaol, the world
situation in the grip of the great depression. I read as many
books as I could find on the subject, and the more I read the
more fascinated I grew. India with her problems and struggles
became just a part of this mighty world drama, of the great
struggle of political and economic forces that was going on
everywhere, nationally and internationally. In that struggle
my own sympathies went increasingly towards the communist
side.

1 had long been drawn to socialism and communism, and
Russia had appealed to me. Much in Soviet Russia I dislike —
the ruthless suppression of all contrary opinion, the wholesale
regimentation, the unnecessary violence (as I thought) in carry-
ing out various policies. But there was no lack of violence and
suppression in the capitalist world, and I realised more and
more how the very basis and foundation of our acquisitive
society and property was violence. Without violence it could
not continue for many days. A measure of political liberty
meant little indeed when the fear of starvation was always
compelling the vast majority of people everywhere to submit
to the will of the few, to the greater glory an<f advantage of
the latter.

Violence was common in both places, but the violence
of the capitalist order seemed inherent in it; whilst the
violence of Russia, bad though it was, aimed at a new
order based on peace and cooperation and real freedom for the
masses. With all her blunders, Soviet Russia had triumphed
over enormous difficulties and taken great strides towards this
new order. While the rest of the world was in the grip of the
depression and going backward in some ways, in the Soviet

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

36*

country a great new world was being built up before our eyes.
Russia, following the great Lenin, looked into the future and
thought only of what was to be, while other countries lay
numbed under the dead hand of the past and spent their
energy in preserving the useless relics of a bygone age. In
particular, I was impressed by the reports of the great progress
made by the backward regions of Central Asia under the
Soviet regime. In the balance, therefore, I was all in favour of
Russia, and the presence and example of the Soviets was a
bright and heartening phenomenon in a dark and dismal
world.

But Soviet Russia’s success or failure, vastly important as it
was as a practical experiment in establishing a communist
state, did not affect the soundness of the theory of communism.
The Bolsheviks may blunder or even fail because of national
or international reasons, and yet the communist theory may
be correct. On the basis of that very theory it was absurd to
copy blindly what had taken place in Russia, for its application
depended on the particular conditions prevailing in the country
in question and the stage of its historical development. Besides,
India, or any other country, could profit by the triumphs as well
as the inevitable mistakes of the Bolsheviks. Perhaps the Bol-
sheviks had tried to go too fast because, surrounded as they
were by a world of enemies, they feared external aggression.
A slower tempo might avoid much of the misery caused in
the rural areas. But then the question arose if really radical
results could be obtained by slowing down the rate of change.
Reformism was an impossible solution of any vital problem at
a critical moment when the basic structure had to be changed,
and however slow the progress might be later on, the initial
step must be a complete break with the existing order, which
had fulfilled its purpose and was now only a drag on future
progress.

In India, only a revolutionary plan could solve the two
related questions of the land and industry as well as almost
every other major problem before the country. “There is no
graver mistake,” as Mr. Lloyd George says in his War Memoirs,
“ than to leap the abyss in two jumps.”

Russia apart, the theory and philosophy of Marxism
lightened up many a dark comer of my mind. History came to
have a new meaning for me. The Marxist interpretation threw
a flood of light on it, and it became an unfolding drama with
some order and purpose, howsoever unconscious, behind it. In
spite of the appalling waste and misery of the past and the

STRUGGLE

363

present, the future was bright with hope, though many dangers
intervened. It was the essential freedom from dogma and the
scientific outlook of Marxism that appealed to me. It was
true that there was plenty of dogma in official communism in
Russia and elsewhere, and frequently heresy hunts were or-
ganised. That seemed to be deplorable, though it was not
difficult to understand in view of the tremendous changes
taking place rapidly in the Soviet countries when effective oppo-
sition might have resulted in catastrophic failure.

The great world crisis and slump seemed to justify the
Marxist analysis. While all other systems and theories were
groping about in the dark, Marxism alone explained it more or
less satisfactorily and offered a real solution.

As this conviction grew upon me, I was filled with a new
excitement and my depression at the non-success of civil diso-
bedience grew much less. Was not the world marching rapidly
towards the desired consummation? There were grave dangers
of wars and catastrophes, but at any rate we were moving.
There was no stagnation. Our national struggle became a stage
in the longer journey, and it was as well that repression and
suffering were tempering our people for future struggles and
forcing them to consider the new ideas that were stirring the
world. We would be the stronger and the more disciplined and
hardened by the elimination of the weaker elements. Time was
in our favour.

And so I studied carefully what was happening in Russia,
Germany, England, America, Japan, China, France, Spain, Italy
and Central Europe, and tried to understand the tangled web
of current affairs. I followed with interest the attempts of each
country separately, and of all of them together, to weather
the storm. The repeated failures of international conferences
to find a solution for political and economic ills and the
problem of disarmament reminded me forcibly of a little, but
sufficiently troublesome, problem of our own— -the communal
problem. With all the goodwill in the world, we have so far
not solved the problem; and, in spite of a widespread belief
that failure would lead to world catastrophe, the great states-
men of Europe and America have failed to pull together. In
either case the approach was wrong, and the people concerned
did not dare to go the right way.

In thinking over the troubles and conflicts of the world, I
forgot to some extent my own personal and national troubles.
I would even feel buoyant occasionally at the fact that I was
alive at this great revolutionary period of the world's history.

364 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Perhaps I might also have to play some little part in my own
comer of the world in the great changes that were to come.
At other times I would find the atmosphere of conflict and
violence all over the world very depressing. Worse still was the
sight of intelligent men and women who had become so accus-
tomed to human degradation and slavery that their minds were
too coarsened to resent suffering and poverty and inhumanity.
Noisy vulgarity and organised humbug flourished in this stifling
moral atmosphere, and good men were silent. The triumph
of Hitler and the Brown Terror that followed was a great
shock, though I consoled myself that it could only be tem-
porary. Almost one had the feeling of the futility of human
endeavour. The machine went on blindly, what could a little
cog in it do?

But still the communist philosophy of life gave me comfort
and hope. How was it to be applied to India? We had not
solved yet the problem of political freedom, and the national-
istic outlook filled our minds. Were we to jump to economic
freedom at the same time or take them in turn, however short
the interval might be? World events as well as happenings
in India were forcing the social issue to the front, and it
seemed that political freedom could no longer be separated
from it.

The policy of the British Government in India had resulted in
ranging the socially reactionary classes in opposition to political
independence. That was inevitable, and I welcomed the clearer
demarcation of the various classes and groups in India. But
was this fact appreciated by others? Apparently not by many.
It was true that there were a handful of orthodox Communists
in some of the big cities and they were hostile to, and bitterly
critical of, the national movement. The organised Labour
movement, especially in Bombay and, to a lesser extent, in
Calcutta, was also socialistic in a loose kind of way, but it was
broken up into bits and suffering from the depression. Vague
communistic and socialistic ideas had spread among the intel-
ligentsia, even among intelligent Government officials. The
younger men and women of the Congress, who used to read
Bryce on Democracies and Morley and Keith and Mazzini,
were now reading, when they could get them, books on social-
ism and communism and Russia. The Meerut Conspiracy
Case had helped greatly in directing people’s minds to these
n$W ideas, and the world crisis had compelled attention. Every-
where there was in evidence a new spirit of enquiry, a
questioning, and a challenge to existing institutions. The

STRUGGLE

3<>5

general direction of the mental wind was obvious, but still it
was a gentle breeze, unsure of itself. Some people flirted with
Fascist ideas. A clear and definite ideology was lacking.
Nationalism still was the dominating thought.

It seemed clear to me that nationalism would remain the
outstanding urge, till some measure of political freedom was
attained. Because of this the Congress had been, and was still
(apart from certain Labour circles), the most advanced organisa-
tion in India, as it was far the most powerful. During the past
thirteen years, under Gandhiji’s leadership, it had produced
a wonderful awakening of the masses and, in spite of its vague
bourgeois ideology, it had served a revolutionary purpose. It
had not exhausted its utility yet, and was not likely to do so till
the nationalist urge gave place to a social one. Future progress,
both ideological and in action, must therefore be largely asso-
ciated with the Congress, though other avenues could also be
used.

To desert the Congress seemed to me thus to cut oneself
adrift from the vital urge of the nation, to blunt the most
powerful weapon we had, and perhaps to waste energy in
ineffective adventurism. And yet, was the Congress, constituted
as it was, ever likely to adopt a really radical social solution?
If such an issue was placed before it, the result was bound to
be to split it into two or more parts, or at least to drive away
large sections from it. That in itself was not undesirable or
unwelcome if the issues became clearer and a strongly-knit
group, either a majority or minority in the Congress, stood for
a radical social programme.

But Congress at present meant Gandhiji. What would he
do? Ideologically he was sometimes amazingly backward, and
yet in action he had been the greatest revolutionary of recent
times in India. He was a unique personality, and it was im-
possible to judge him by the usual standards, or even to apply
the ordinary canons of logic to him. But because he was a
revolutionary at bottom and was pledged to political inde-
pendence for India, he was bound to play an uncompromising
r61e till that independence was achieved. And in this very
process he would release tremendous mass energies and would
himself, I half hoped, advance step by step towards the social
goal.

The orthodox Communists in India and outside have for
many years past attacked Gandhiji and the Congress bitterly,
and imputed all manner of base motives to the Congress
leaders. Many of their theoretical criticisms of Congress

3^6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

ideology were able and pointed, and subsequent events partly
justified them. Some of the earlier Communist analyses of the
general Indian political situation turned out to be remarkably
correct. But as soon as they leave their general principles and
enter into details, and especially when they consider the role
of the Congress, they go hopelessly astray. One of the reasons
for the weakness in numbers as well as influence of the Com-
munists in India is that, instead of spreading a scientific know-
ledge of communism and trying to convert people’s minds to
. it, they have largely concentrated on abuse of others. This
has reacted on them and done them great injury. Most of
them are used to working in labour areas, where a few slogans
are usually enough to win over the workers. But mere slogans
are not enough for the intellectual, and they have not realised
that in India to-day the middle-class intellectual is the most
revolutionary force. Almost in spite of the orthodox Com-
munists, many intellectuals have been drawn to communism,
but even so there is a gulf between them.

According to the Communists, the objective of the Congress
leaders has been to bring mass pressure on the Government in
order to obtain industrial and commercial concessions in the
interests of Indian capitalists and zamindars. The task of the
Congress is “to harness the economic and political discontent
of the peasantry, the lower middle-class and the industrial
working-class to the chariot of the mill-owners and financiers
of Bombay, Ahjncdabad and Calcutta.” The Indian capitalists
are supposed to sit behind the scenes and issue orders to the
Congress Working Committee first to organise a mass move-
ment and, when it becomes too vast and dangerous, to suspend
it or side-track it. Further, that the Congress leaders really do
not want the British to go away, as they are required to control
and exploit a starving population, and the Indian middle class
do not feel themselves equal to this.

It is surprising that able Communists should believe this
fantastic analysis, but believing this as they apparently do, it
is not surprising that they should fail so remarkably in
India. Their basic error seems to be that they judge the Indian
National Movement from European Labour standards, and
used as they are to the repeated betrayals of the labour move-
ment by the labour leaders, they apply the analogy to India.
The Indian National Movement is obviously not a labour or
pMletarian movement. It is a bourgeois movement, as its very
name implies, and its objective so far has been, not a change
pf the social order, but political independence. This objective

STRUGGLE

367

may be criticised as not far-reaching enough, and nationalism
itself may be condemned as out of date. But accepting the
fundamental basis of the movement, it is absurd to say that
the leaders betray the masses because they do not try to
upset the land system or the capitalist system. They never
claimed to do so. Some people in the Congress, and they are
a growing number, want to change the land system and the
capitalist system, but they cannot speak in the name of the
Congress.

It is true that the Indian capitalist classes (not the big zamin-
dars and taluqadars) have profited greatly by the national
movement because of British and other foreign boycotts, and
the push given to swadeshi. This was inevitable, as every
national movement encourages home industries and preaches
boycotts. As a matter of fact the Bombay mill industry in a
body, during the continuance of civil disobedience and when
we were preaching the boycott of British goods, had the
temerity to conclude a pact with Lancashire. From the point
of view of the Congress, this was a gross betrayal 01 the
national cause, and it was characterised as such. The repre-
sentative of the Bombay mill-owners in the Assembly also
consistently ran down the Congress and * extremists * while most
of us were in gaol.

The part that many capitalist elements have played in India
during the past few years has been scandalous, even from the
Congress and nationalist view-point. Ottawa may have benefited
temporarily some small groups, but it was bad in the interest
of Indian industry as a whole, and made it even more sub-
servient to British capital and industry. It was harmful to the
masses, and it was negotiated while our struggle was being
carried on, and many thousands were in prison. Every
Dominion wrung out the hardest terms from England, but
India had the privilege of making almost a gift to her. During
the last few years also financial adventurers have trafficked in
gold and silver at India’s expense.

As for the big zamindars and taluqadars, the^ ranged them-
selves completely against the Congress in the Round Table
Conference, and they openly and aggressively declared them-
selves on the side of the Government right through civil diso-
bedience. It was with their help that Government passed
repressive legislation in various provinces embodying the
Ordinances. And in the United Provinces Council the great
majority of the zamindar members voted against the release of
civil disobedience prisoners.

368 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

The idea that Gandhiji was forced to launch seemingly
aggressive movements in 1931 and 1930 because of mass pres-
sure, is also absolutely wrong. Mass stirrings there were, of
course, but on both occasions it was Gandhiji who forced
the pace. In 1921 he carried the Congress almost single-
handed, and plunged 'it into non-co-operation. In 1930 it
would have been quite impossible to have any aggressive and
effective direct action movement if he had resisted it in any
way.

It is very unfortunate that foolish and ill-informed criticisms
of a personal nature are made, because they divert attention
from the real issues. To attack Gandhiji’s bona fides is to injure
onself and one’s own cause, for to the millions of India he
stands as the embodiment of truth, and any one who knows
him at all realises the passionate earnestness with which he is
always seeking to do right.

Communists in India have associated with the industrial
workers of the big towns. They have little knowledge of, or
contact with, the rural areas. The industrial workers, important
as they are, and likely to be more so in the future, must take
second place before the peasants, for the problem of to-day in
India is the problem of the peasantry. Congress workers, on
the other hand, have spread all over these rural areas and,
in the ordinary course, the Congress must develop into a
vast peasant organisation. Peasants are seldom revolutionary
after their immediate objective is attained, and it is likely
that some time in the future the usual problem of city versus
village and industrial worker versus peasant will rise m India
also.

It has been my privilege to be associated very closely with
a large number of Congress leaders and workers, and I could
not wish for a finer set of men and women. And yet I have
differed from them on vital issues, and often I have felt a little
weary at finding that they do not appreciate or understand
something that seems to me quite obvious. It was not due to
want of intelligence, somehow we moved in different ideo-
logical grooves. I realised how difficult it is to cross these
boundaries suddenly. They constitute different philosophies of
life, and we grow into them gradually and unconsciously. It
is fiitile to blame the other party. Socialism involves a certain
psychological outlook on life and its problems. It is more than
mete logic. So also are the other outlooks based on heredity,
upbringing, the unseen influences of the past and our present
environments. Only life itself with its bitter lessons forces us

STRUCGLK

3«9

along new paths and ultimately, which is far harder, makes us
think differently. Perhaps we may help a little in this process.
And perhaps

" On rencontre sa destinie
Souvent par les chemins q’on prend pour Fdviter."

N

XLVII

WHAT IS RELIGION?

Our peaceful and monotonous routine in gaol was suddenly
upset in the middle of September 1932 by a bombshell. News
came that Gandhiji had decided to “ fast unto death ” in disap-

E roval of the separate electorates given by Mr. Ramsay Mac-
donald’s Communal Award to the Depressed Classes. What a
capacity he had to give-shocks to people! Suddenly all manner
of ideas rushed into my head; all kinds of possibilities and
contingencies rose up before me and upset my equilibrium
completely. For two days I was in darkness with no light to
show the way out, my heart sinking when I thought of some
results of Gandhiji’s action. The personal aspect was powerful
enough, and I thought with anguish that I might not see him
again. It was over a year ago that I had seen him last on board
snip on the way to England. Was that going to be my last
sight of him?

And then I felt annoyed with him for choosing a side-issue
for his final sacrifice — just a questioh of electorate. What would
be the result on our freedom movement? Would not the larger
issues fade into the background, for the time being at least?
And if he attained his immediate object and got a joint elec-
torate for the Depressed Classes, would not that result in a
reaction and a feeling that something has been achieved and
nothing more need be done for a while? And was not his action
a recognition, and in part an acceptance, of the Communal
Award and the general scheme of things as sponsored by the
Government? Was this consistent with Non-Co-operation and
Civil Disobedience? After so much sacrifice and brave en-
deavour, was our movement to tail off into something insig-
nificant?

I felt angry with him at his religious and sentimental ap-
proach to a political question, and nis frequent references to
God in connection with it. He even seemed to suggest that
God had indicated the very date of the fast. What a terrible
example to set!

If Bapu died! What would India be like then? And how
would her politics run? There seemed to be a dreary and dismal
future ahead, and despair seized my heart when 1 thought of
it.

37 °

WHAT IS RELIGION? 371

So I thought and thought, and confusion reigned in my head,
and anger and hopelessness, and love for him who was the
cause of this upheaval. I hardly knew what to do, and I was
irritable and short-tempered with everybody, and most of all
with myself.

And then a strange thing happened to me. I had quite an
emotional crisis, and at the end of it I felt calmer and the
future seemed not so dark. Bapu had a curious knack of doing
the right thing at the psychological moment, and it might be
that ms action — impossible to justify as it was from my point
of view — would lead to great results, not only fn the narrow
field in which it was confined, but in the wider aspects of our
national struggle. And even if Bapu died our struggle for
freedom would go on. So whatever happened, one must keep
ready and fit for it. Having made up my mind to face even
Gandhiji’s death without flinching, I felt calm and collected
and ready to face the world and all it might offer.

Then came news of the tremendous upheaval all over the
country, a magic wave of enthusiasm running through Hindu
society, and untouchability appeared to be doomed. What a
magician, I thought, was this little man sitting in Yeravda
Prison, and how well he knew how to pull the strings that
move people’s hearts !

A telegram from him reached me. It was the first message
I had received from him since my conviction, and it did me
good to hear from him after that long interval. In this tele-
gram he said :

During all these days of agony you have been before mind’s
eye. I am most anxious to know your opinion. You know how
I value your opinion. Saw Indu (and) Sarup’s children. Indu
looked happy and in possession of more flesh. Doing very well.
Wire reply. Love.

It was extraordinary, and yet it was characteristic of him,
that in the agony of his fast and in the midst of his many
preoccupations, he should refer to the visit of my daughter
and my sister’s children to him, and even mention that Indira
had put on flesh 1 (My sister was also in prison then and all
these children were at school in Poona.) He never forgets the
seemingly little things in life which really mean so much.

News also came to me just then that some settlement had
been reached over the electorate issue. The superintendent of
the gaol was good enough to allow me to send an answer to
Gandhiji, and I sent him the following telegram :

37 *

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Your telegram and brief news that some settlement reached
filled me with relief and joy. First news of your decision to fast
caused mental agony and confusion, but ultimately optimism
triumphed and I regained peace of mind. No sacrifice too great
for suppressed downtrodden classes. Freedom must be judged
by freedom of lowest but feel danger of other issues obscuring
only goal. Am unable to judge from religious view point.
Danger your methods being exploited by others but how can I
presume to advise a magician. Love.

A 'pact 9 was signed by various people gathered in Poona,
and with unusual speed the British Prime Minister accepted it
and varied his previous award accordingly, and the fast was
broken. I disliked such pacts and agreements greatly, but I
welcomed the Poona Pact apart from its contents.

The excitement was over and we reverted to our gaol routine.
News of the Harijan movement and of Gandhiji’s activities
from prison came to us, and I was not very happy 'about it.
There was no doubt that a tremendous push had been given to
the movement to end untouchability and raise the unhappy
depressed classes, not so much by the pact as by the crusading
enthusiasm created all over the country. That was to be wel-
comed. But it was equally obvious that civil disobedience had
suffered. The country's attention had been diverted to other
issues, and many Congress workers had turned to the Harijan
cause. Probably most of these people wanted an excuse to
revert to safer activities which did not involve the risk of gaol
going or, worse still, lathi blows and confiscations of property.
That was natural, and it was not fair to expect all the thousands
of our workers to keep always ready for intense suffering and the
break-up and destruction of their homes. But still it was pain-
ful to watch this slow decay of our great movement. Civil
disobedience was, however, still going on, and occasionally there
were mass demonstrations like the Calcutta Congress in March-
April 1933. Gandhiji was in Yeravda Prison, but he had been
given certain privileges to meet people and issue directions for
the Harijan movements. Somehow this took away from the
sting of his being in prison. All this depressed me.

Many months later, early in May 1933, Gandhiji began his
twenty-one-day fast. The first news of this had again come as
a shoot to me, but I accepted it as an inevitable occurrence and
schooled myself to it. Indeed I was irritated that people should
urge him to give it up, after he had made up his mind and
declared it to the public. For me the fast was an incompre-
hensible thing and, if I had been asked before the decision had

WHAT IS RELIGION? 373

been taken, I would certainly have spoken strongly against it.
But I attached great value to Gandhiu’s word, ana it seemed to
me wrong for any one to try to make him break it, in a per*
sonal matter which, to him, was of supreme importance. So,
unhappy as I was, I put up with it.

A few days before beginning his fast he wrote to me, a typical
letter which moved me very much. As he asked for a reply
I sent him the following telegram :

Your letter. What can I say about matters I do not under-
stand. I feel lost in strange country where you are the only
familiar landmark and I try to grope my way in dark but I
stumble. Whatever happens my love and thoughts will be with
you.

I had struggled against my utter disapproval of his act and
my desire not to hurt him. I felt, however, that I had not sent
him a cheerful message, and now that he was bent on under-
going his terrible ordeal, which might even end in his death,
I ought to cheer him up as much as I could. Little things make
a difference psychologically, and he would have to strain every
nerve to survive. I felt also that we should accept whatever
happened, even his death, if unhappily it should occur, with a
stout heart. So I sent him another telegram :

Now that you are launched on your great enterprise may I
send you again love and greetings and assure you that I feel
more clearly now that whatever happens it is well and whatever
happens you win.

He survived the fast. On the first day of it he was discharged
from prison, and on his advice Civil Disobedience was suspended
for six weeks.

Again I watched the emotional upheaval of the country
during the fast, and I wondered more and more if this was the
right method in politics. It seemed to be sheer revivalism, and
clear thinking had not a ghost cf a chance against it. All India,
or most of it, stared reverently at the Mahatma and expected
him to perform miracle after miracle and put an end to un-
touchability and get swaraj and so on — and did precious little
itself 1 And Gandhiji did not encourage others to think; his
insistence was only on purity and sacrifice. I felt that I was
drifting further and further away from him mentally, in spite
of my strong emotional attachment to him. Often enough he
was guided in his political activities by an unerring instinct. He

374 JAWAHARtAL NEHRU

had the flair for action, but was the way of faith the right way
to train a nation? It might pay for a short while, but in the
long run?

And I could not understand how he could accept, as he
seemed to do, the present social order, which was based
on violence and conflict, Within me also conflict raged, and I
was tom between rival loyalties. I knew that there was trouble
ahead for me, when the enforced protection of gaol was re-
moved. } felt lonely and homeless, and India, to whom I had
given my love and for whom I had laboured, seemed a strange
and bewildering land to me. Was it my fault that I could not
enter into the spirit and ways of thinking of my countrymen?
Even with my closest associates I felt that an invisible barrier
came between us and, unhappy at being unable to overcome it,
I shrank back into my shell. The old world seemed to envelop
them, the old world of past ideologies, hopes and desires. The
new world was yet far distant.

“Wandering between two worlds, one dead.

The other powerless to be born.

With nowhere yet to rest his head.”

India is supposed to be a religious country above everything
else, and Hindu and Moslem and Sikh and others take pride in
their faiths and testify to their truth by breaking heads. The
spectacle of what is called religion, or at any rate organised
religion, in India and elsewhere has filled me with horror, and
I have frequently condemned it and wished to make a clean
sweep of it. Almost always it seems to stand for blind belief
and reaction, dogma and bigotry, superstition and exploitation,
and the preservation of vested interests. And yet I knew well
that there was something else in it, something which supplied a
deep inner craving of human beings. How else could it have
been the tremendous power it has been and brought peace and
comfort to innumerable tortured souls? Was that peace merely
the shelter of blind belief and absence of questioning, the calm
that comes from being safe in harbour, protected from the
storms of the open sea, or was it something more? In some
cases certainly it was something more.

* But organised religion, whatever its past may have been, to-
day is very largely an empty form devoid of real content. Mr.
G. K. Chesterton has compared it (not his own particular brand
of religion, but others 1) to a fossil which is the form of an
animal or organism from which all its own organic substance
has entirely disappeared, but which has kept its shape, because

WHAT IS RELIGIOM ? 375

it has been filled ujp by some totally different substance. And
even where something of value still remains, it is enveloped by
other and harmful contents.

That seems to have happened in our Eastern religions as well
as in the Western. The Church of England is perhaps the most
obvious example of a religion which is not a religion in any
real sense of the word. Partly that applies to ail organised
Protestantism, but the Church of England has probably
gone further because it has long been a State political depart-
ment . 1

Many of its votaries are undoubtedly of the highest character,
but it is remarkable how that Church has served the purposes
of British imperialism and given both capitalism and lmperial-

1 In India the Church of England has been almost indistinguish-
able from the Government. The officially paid (out of Indian,
revenues) priests and chaplains are the symbols of the imperial
power just as the higher services are. The Church has been, on the
whole, a conservative and reactionary force in Indian politics and
generally opposed to reform or advance. The average missionary is
usually wholly ignorant of India’s past history and culture and aoes
not take the slightest trouble to find out what it was or is. He is
more interested m pointing out the sins and failings of the heathen.
Of course, there have been many fine exceptions. India does not
possess a more devoted friend than Charlie Andrews, whose abound-
ing love and spirit of service and overflowing friendliness it is a joy
to have. The Christa Seva Sangh of Poona contains some one
Englishmen, whose religion has led them to understand and serve
and not to patronise, and who have devoted themselves with all
their great gifts to a selfless service of the Indian people. There
are many other English churchmen whose memory is treasured in
India.

The Archbishop of Canterbury, speaking in the House of Lords
on December 12, 1934, referred to the preamble of the Montagu-
Chelmsford reforms of 1919 and said that “he sometimes thought
the great declaration had been somewhat hastily made, and sup-
posed that it was one of the hasty, generous gestures after the War,
but the goal set could not be witndrawn.” It is worthy of note that
the head of the English Church should take such an exceedingly
conservative view of Indian politics. A step, which was considered
wholly insufficient by Indian opinion and which, because of this,
led to non-co-operation and all its consequences, is considered by
the Archbishop as “ hasty and generous. It is a comforting doc*
trine from the point of view of the English ruling classes, and, no
doubt, this conviction of their own generosity, even to the point of
rashness, must produce a righteous glow of satisfaction.

376 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

ism a moral and Christian covering. It has sought to justify,
from the highest ethical standards, British predatory policy in
Asia and Africa, and given that extraordinary and enviable
feeling of being always m the right to the English. Whether the
Church has helped in producing this attitude of smug rectitude
or is itself a product of it, I do not know. Other less favoured
countries on the Continent of Europe and in America often
accuse tne English of hypocrisy — perpde Albion is an old taunt
—but the accusation is probably the outcome of envy at British
success, and certainly no other imperialist Power can afford to
throw stones at England, for its own record is equally shady.
No nation that is consciously hypocritical could have the
reserves of strength that the British have repeatedly shown, and
the brand of ‘ religion * which they have adopted has apparently
helped them in this by blunting their moral susceptibilities
where their own interests were concerned. Other peoples and
nations have often behaved far worse than the British have
done, but they have never succeeded, quite to the same extent,
in making a virtue of what profited them. All of us find it
remarkably easy to spot the mote in the other’s eye and over-
look the beam in our own, but perhaps the British excel at this
performance. 1 * *

Protestantism tried to adapt itself to new conditions and
wanted to have the best of both worlds. It succeeded remark-
ably so far as this world was concerned, but from the religious
point of view it fell, as an organised religion, between two stools,
and religion gradually gave place to sentimentality and big
business. Roman Catholicism escaped this fate, as it stuck on to
the old stool, and, so long as that stool holds, it will flourish.
To-day it seems to be the only living religion, in the restricted
sense of the word, in the West. A Roman Catholic friend sent
me in prison many books on Catholicism and Papal Encyclicals
and I read them with interest. Studying them, I realised the

1 A recent instance of how the Church of England indirectly
influences politics in India has come to my notice. At a provincial
conference of the U.P. Indian Christians held at Cawnpore on the

7th November, 1934, the Chairman of the Reception Committee,
Mr. E. V. David, said : “ As Christians we are bound by our religion
to loyalty to the King, who is the Defender of our Faith/’ Inevit-

ably that meant support of British imperialism in India. Mr. David
further expressed his sympathies with some of the views of the 4 die-

hard ' Conservative elements in England in regard to the I.CJS., the
police, and the whole proposed constitution, which, according to
them, might endanger Christian missions in India.

WHAT IS RELIGION?

377

hold it had on such large numbers of people. It offered, as
Islam and popular Hinduism offer, a safe anchorage from doubt
and mental conflict, an assurance of a future life which will
make up for the deficiencies of this life.

I am afraid it is impossible for me to seek harbourage in this
way. I prefer the open sea, with all its storms and tempests. Nor
am I greatly interested in the after life, in what happens after
death. I find the problems of this life sufficiently absorbing to
fill my mind. The traditional Chinese outlook, fundamentally
ethical and yet irreligious or tinged with religious scepticism,
has an appeal for me, though in its application to life I may not
agree. It is the Tao, the path to be followed and the way of life
that interests me; how to understand life, not to reject it but to
accept it, to conform to it and to improve it. But the usual
religious outlook does not concern itself with this world. It
seems to me to be the enemy of clear thought, for it is based
not only on the acceptance without demur of certain fixed and
unalterable theories and dogmas, but also on sentiment and
emotion and passion. It is far removed from what I consider
spiritually and things of the spirit, and it deliberately or
unconsciously shuts its eyes to reality lest reality may not
fit in with preconceived notions. It is narrow and intolerant
of other opinions and ideas; it is self-centred and egotistic, and
it often allows itself to be exploited by self-seekers and oppor-
tunists.

This does not mean that men of religion have not been and
are not still often of the highest moral and spiritual type. But
it does mean that the religious outlook does not help, and even
hinders, the moral and spiritual progress of a people, if
morality and spirituality are to be judged by this world’s stan-
dards, and not by the hereafter. Usually religion becomes an
asocial quest for God or the Absolute, and the religious man is
concerned far more with his own salvation than with the good
of society. The mystic tries to rid himself of self, and in the
process usually becomes obsessed with it. Moral standards have
no relation to social needs, but are based on a highly meta-
physical doctrine of sin. And organised religion invariably
becomes a vested interest and thus inevitably a reactionary force
opposing change and progress.

It is well known that the Christian Church in the early days
did not help the slaves to improve their social status. The slaves
became the feudal serfs of the Middle Ages of Europe because
of economic conditions. The attitude of the Church, as late as
two hundred years ago (in 1727), was well exemplified in a letter

378 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

written by the Bishop of London to the slave-owners of the
southern colonies of America. 1 * *

“ Christianity,” wrote the Bishop, * and the embracing of the
gospel does not make the least alteration in Civil property or in
any of the duties which belong to civil relations; but m all these
respects it continues Persons just in the same State as it found
them. The Freedom which Christianity gives is Freedom from
the bondage of Sin and Satan and from the Dominion of Men's
Lusts and Passions and inordinate Desires; but as to their out-
ward condition, whatever that was before, whether bond or free,
their being baptised and becoming Christians makes no manner
of change in them.”

No organised religion to-day will express itself in this out-
spoken manner, but essentially its attitude to property and the
existing social order will be the same.

Words are well known to be, by themselves, very imperfect
means of communication, and are often understood in a variety
of ways. No word perhaps in any language is more likely to be
interpreted in different ways by different people as the word
‘religion’ (or the corresponding words in other languages).
Probably to no two persons will the same complex of ideas and
images arise on hearing or reading this word. Among these
ideas and images may be those of rites and ceremonial, of
sacred books, of a community of people, of certain dogmas, of
morals, reverence, love, fear, hatred, charity, sacrifice, asceti-
cism, fasting, feasting, prayer, ancient history, marriage, death,
the next world, of riots and the breaking of heads, and so on.
Apart from the tremendous confusion caused by this immense
variety of images and interpretations, almost invariably there
will be a strong emotional response which will make dispassion-
ate consideration impossible. The word ‘ religion ’ has lost all
precise significance (if it ever had it) and only causes confusion
and gives rise to interminable debate and argument, when often
enough entirely different meanings are attached to it. It would
be far better if it was dropped from use altogether and other
words with more limited meanings were used instead, such as ;
theology, philosophy, morals, ethics, spirituality, metaphysics,
duty, ceremonial, etc. Even these words are vague enough, but
they have a much more limited range than 9 religion.' A great
advantage would be that these words have not yet attached to

1 This letter is quoted in Reinhold Niebuhr’s Moral Man and

Immoral Society (p. 78), a book which is exceedingly interesting and

stimulating.

WHAT IS RELIGION? 379

themselves, to the same extent, the passions and emotions that
surround and envelop the word * religion/

What then is religion (to use t^e word in spite of its obvious
disadvantages)? Probably it consists of the inner development
of the individual, the evolution of his consciousness in a certain
direction which is considered good. What that direction is will
again be a matter for debate. But, as far as I understand it,
religion lays stress on this inner change and considers outward
change as but the projection of this inner development. There
can be no doubt that this inner development powerfully influ-
ences the outer environment. But it is equally obvious that the
outer environment powerfully influences the inner development.
Both act and interaction each other. It is a commonplace that in
the modern industrial West outward development has far out-
stripped the inner, but it does not follow, as many people in the
East appear to imagine, that because we are industrially back-
ward and our external development has been slow, therefore our
inner evolution has been greater. That is one of the delusions
with which we try to comfort ourselves and try to overcome our
feeling of inferiority. It may be that individuals can rise above
circumstances and environment and reach great inner heights.
But for large groups and nations a certain measure of external
development is essential before the inner evolution can take
place. A man who is the victim of economic circumstances, and
who is hedged and restricted by the struggle to live, can very
rarely achieve inner consciousness of any high degree. A class
that is downtrodden and exploited can never progress inwardly.
A nation which is politically and economically subject to
another and hedged and circumscribed and exploited can never
achieve inner growth. Thus even for inner development exter-
nal freedom and a suitable environment become necessary. In
the attempt to gain this outer freedom and to change the en-
vironment so as to remove all hindrances to inner development,
it is desirable that the means should be such as not to defeat
the real object in view. I take it that when Gandhiji says that
the means are more important than the end, he has something
of this kind in view. Bpt the means should be such as lead to
the end, otherwise they are wasted effort, and they might even
result in even greater degradation, both outer and inner.

“ No man can live without religion,”. Gandhiji has written
somewhere. “There are some who in the egotism of their reason
declare that they have nothing to do with religioi^ But that is
like a man saying that he breathes, but that he has no nose.”
Again he says : “ My devotion to truth has drawn me into the

380 JAWAKARLAL NBHRV

field of politics; and I can say without the slightest hesitation,
and yet in all humility, that those who say that religion has
nothing to do with politics do not know what religion means.”
Perhaps it would have been more correct if he had said that
most of these people who want to exclude religion from life and

S olitics mean by that word ' religion ’ something very different
rom what he means. It is obvious that he is using it in a sense
— probably moral and ethical more than any other— different
from that of the critics of religion. This use of the same word
with different meanings makes mutual comprehension still more
difficult.

A very modem definition of religion, with which the men of
religion will not agree, is that of Professor John Dewey.
According to him, religion is “whatever introduces genuine
perspective into the piecemeal and shifting episodes of exist-
ence or again “ any activity pursued in behalf of an ideal end
against obstacles, and in spite of threats of personal loss,
because of conviction of its general and enduring value, is reli-
gious in quality.” If this is religion, then surely no one can
have the slightest objection to it.

Romain Rolland also has stretched religion to mean some-
thing which will probably horrify the orthodox of organised
religions. In his Life of Ramkrishna, he says :

. . many souls who are or who believe they are free from
all religious relief, but who in reality live immersed in a state of
super-rational consciousness, which they term Socialism, Com-
munism, Humanitarianism, Nationalism and even Rationalism.
It is the quality of thought and not its object which determines
its source and allows us to decide whether or not it emanates
from religion. If it turns fearlessly towards the search for truth
at all costs with single-minded sincerity prepared for any sacri-
fice, I should call it religious; for it presupposes faith in an end
to human effort higher than the life of existing society, and
even higher than the life of humanity as a whole. Scepticism
itself, when it proceeds from vigorous natures true to the core,
when it is an expression of strength and not of weakness, joins
in the march of the Grand Army of the religious SouL”

I cannot presume to fulfil the conditions laid down by Romain
Rolland, but on these terms I am prepared to be a humble
camp-follower of the Grand Army.

XLVIII

THE ‘DUAL POLICY’ OF THE BRITISH
GOVERNMENT

The Harijan movement was going on, guided by Gandhiji from
Yeravda Prison and later from outside. There was a great
agitation for removing the barriers to temple entry, and a Bill
to that effect was introduced in the Legislative Assembly* And
then the remarkable spectacle was witnessed of an outstanding
leader of the Congress going from house to house in Delhi,
visiting the members of the Assembly and canvassing for their
votes for this Temple Entry Bill. Gandhiji himself sent an
appeal through him to the Assembly members. And yet civil
disobedience was still going on and people were going to prison,
and the Assembly had been boycotted by the Congress and all
our members had withdrawn from it. The rump that remained
and the others who had filled the vacancies had distinguished
themselves in this crisis by opposition to the Congress and
support of the Government. A majority of them had helped
the Government to pass repressive legislation giving some per-
manence to the extraordinary provisions of the Ordinances.
They had swallowed the Ottawa Pact, they had fed and feasted
with the great ones in Delhi and Simla and London, and joined
in the thank-offerings for British rule in India, and prayed for
the success of what was called the ‘ Dual Policy ’ in India.

I was amazed at Gandhiji's appeal, under the circumstances
then existing, and even more so by the strenuous efforts of
Rajagopalachariar, who, a few weeks before, had been the act-
ing-President of the Congress. Civil Disobedience, of course,
suffered by these activities, but what hurt me more was the
moral side. To me, for Gandhiji or any Congress leader to
countenance such activities appeared immoral and almost a
breach of faith with the large numbers of people in gaol or
carrying on the struggle. But I knew that his way of looking at
it was different.

The Government attitude to this Temple Entry Bill, then and
subsequently, was very revealing. It put every possible difficulty
in the way of its promoters, went on postponing it and en-
couraging opposition to it, and then finally declared its own
opposition to it, and killed it. That, to a greater or lesser extent,
has been its attitude to all measures of social reform in India,

382 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and on the plea of non-interference with religion, it has pre-
vented social progress. But this, it need hardly be said, has not
prevented it from criticising our social evils and encouraging
others to do so. By a fluke, the Sarda Child Marriage Restraint
Bill became law, but the subsequent history of this unhappy
Act showed more than anything else how much averse to en-
forcing any such measure the Government was. The Govern-
ment that could produce ordinances overnight, creating novel
offences and providing for vicarious punishment, and could send
scores of thousands of people to prison for breach of their pro-
visions, apparently quailed at the prospect of enforcing one of
its regular laws like the Sarda Act. The effect of the Act was
first to increase tremendously the very evil it was intended to
combat, for people rushed to take advantage of the intervening
six months of grace which the Act very foolishly allowed. And
then it was discovered that the Act was more or less of a joke
and could be easily ignored without any steps being taken by
Government. Not even the slightest attempt at propaganda was
made officially, and most people in the villages never knew
what the Act was. They heard distorted accounts of it from
Hindu and Muslim village preachers, who themselves seldom
knew the correct facts.

This extraordinary spirit of toleration of social evils in India
which the British Government has shown is obviously not due
to any partiality for them. It is true that they do not very much
care about their removal, for these evils do not interfere with
their business of governing India and exploiting her resources.
There is also always the danger of irritating various people by
proposing social reforms, and, having to face enough anger and
irritation on the political plane, the British Government has no
desire whatever to add to its troubles. But latterly the position
has become worse from the point of view of the social reformer,
for the British are becoming more and more the silent bulwarks
of these evils. This is due to their close association with the
most reactionary elements in India. As opposition to their rule
increases they have to seek strange allies, and to-day the firmest
champions of British rule in India are the extreme communal-
ists and the religious reactionaries and obscurantists. The
Muslim communal organisations are notoriously reactionary
from every point of view— political, economic, social. The
Hindu Mahasabha rivals them, but it is left far behind in this
backward-moving race by the Sanatanists, who combine reli-
gious obscurantism of an extreme type with fervent, or at any
rate loudly expressed, loyalty to British rule.

* DUAL POLICY* OF BRITISH GOVERNMENT 383

If the British Government was quiescent and took no steps to
popularise the Sarda Act and to enforce it, why did not the
Congress or other non-official organisations carry on propaganda
in favour of it? This question is often put by British and other
foreign critics. So far as the Congress is concerned, it has been
engaged during the last fifteen years, and especially since 1930,
in a fierce life-and-death struggle for national freedom with the
British rulers. The other organisations have no real strength
or contact with the masses. Men and women of ideals and
force of character and influence among the masses* were drawn
into the Congress and spent much of their time in British
prisons.

Other organisations could seldom go beyond the passing of
resolutions by select people who feared the mass touch. They
functioned in a gentlemanly way or, like the All-India Women’s
Association, in a lady-like way, and the spirit of aggressive
propaganda was not theirs. Besides, they too were paralysed by
the terrible repression of all public activities by the Ormnances
and the laws that followed them. Martial law may crush revolu-
tionary activity, but at the same time it paralyses civilisation
and most civilised activities.

But the real reason why the Congress and other non-official
organisations cannot do much for social reform goes deeper. We
suffer from the disease of nationalism, and that absorbs our
attention and it will continue to do so till we get political free-
dom. As Bernard Shaw has said : “ A conquered nation is like
a man with cancer; he can think of nothing else. . . . There is
indeed no greater curse to a nation than a nationalist move-
ment, which is only the agonising symptom of a suppressed
natural function. Conquered nations lose their place in the
world’s march because they can do nothing but strive to get rid
of their nationalist movements by recovering their national
liberty.”

Past experience shows us that we can make little social pro-
gress under present conditions, in spite of apparent transfers of
subjects to elected ministers. The tremendous* inertia of the
Government is always helpful to the conservative elements, and
for generations past the British Government has crushed initia-
tive and ruled despotically, or paternally, as it has itself called
it. It does not approve of any big organised effort by non-
officials, and suspects ulterior motives. The Harijan movement,
in spite of every precaution taken by its organisers, has occa-
sionally come in conflict with officials. I am sure that if the
Congress started a nation-wide propaganda for the greater use

384 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

of soap it would come in conflict with Government in many
places.

I do not think it is very difficult to convert the masses to
social reform if the State takes the matter in hand. But alien
rulers are always suspect, and they cannot go far in the process
of conversion. If the alien element was removed and economic
changes were given precedence, an energetic administration
could easily introduce far-reaching social reforms.

But social reform and the Sarda Act and the Harijan Move-
ment did not fill our minds in prison, except in so far as I felt
a little irritated by the Harijan Movement because it had come
in the way of civil disobedience. Early in May 1933 Civil Dis-
obedience had been suspended for six weeks, and we waited
anxiously for further developments. That suspension had given
a final blow to the movement, for one cannot play fast and
loose with a national struggle and switch it on and off at will.
Even before the suspension the leadership of the movement
had been singularly weak and ineffective. There were petty
conferences being held, and all manner of rumours spread
which militated against active work. Some of the acting-Presi-
dents of the Congress were very estimable men, but it was
unkindness to them to make them generals of an active cam-
paign. There was too much of a hint of tiredness about them,
of a desire to get out of a difficult position. There was some
discontent against this vacillation and indecision in high quar-
ters, but it was difficult to express it in an organised way, as all
Congress bodies were unlawful.

Then came Gandhiji’s twenty-one-day fast, his discharge from
prison, and the suspension of civil disobedience for six weeks.
The fast was over, and very slowly he recovered from it. In the
middle of June the period of suspension of civil disobedience
was extended by another six weeks. Meanwhile the Govern-
ment had in no way toned down its aggression. In the Anda-
man Islands political prisoners (those convicted 'in Bengal for
acts of revolutionary violence were sent there) were on hunger-
strike on the question of treatment, and one or two of them
died— starved to death. Others lay dying. People who addressed
meetings in India in protest of wnat was happening in the
Andamans were themselves arrested and sentenced. We were
not only ,to suffer, but we were not even to complain, even
though prisoners died by the terrible ordeal of the hunger-
strike, having no other means of protest open to them. Some
months later, in September 1933 (when I was out of prison), an
appeal was issued over a number of signatures including

4 BtJ AL POLICY 9 OF BRITISH GOVERNMENT 385

Rabindra Nath Tagore, C. F. Andrews, and many other well-
known people, mostly unconnected with the Congress, asking
for more humanitarian treatment of the Andamans’ prisoners,
and preferably for their transfer to Indian gaols. The Home
Member of tne Government of India expressed his great dis-
pleasure at this statement, and criticised the signatories strongly
for their sympathy for the prisoners. Later, as far as I can
remember, the expression of such sympathy was made a
punishable offence in Bengal.

Before the second six weeks of suspension of civil dis-
obedience were over, news came to us in Dehra Dun Gaol that
Gandhiji had called an informal conference at Poona. Two or
three hundred people met there and, on Gandhiji’s advice, mass
civil disobedience was suspended, but individual civil dis-
obedience was permitted, and all secret methods were barred.
The decisions were not very inspiring, but I did not particularly
object to them so far as they went. To stop mass civil dis-
obedience was to recognise and stabilise existing conditions, for,
in reality, there was no mass movement then. Secret work was
merely a pretence that we were carrying on, and often it
demoralised, having regard to the character of our movement.
To some extent it was necessary in order to send instructions
and keep contacts, but civil disobedience itself could not be
secret.

What surprised me and distressed me was the absence of
any real discussion at Poona of the existing situation and of
our objectives. Congressmen had met together after nearly two
years of fierce conflict and repression, and much had hap-
pened meanwhile in the world at large and in India, including
the publication of the White Paper containing the British
Government’s proposals for constitutional reform. We had to
put up during this period with enforced silence, and on the
other side there had been ceaseless and perverted propaganda
to obscure the issues. It was frequently stated, not only by
supporters of the Government but by Liberals and others, that
the Congress had given up its objective of independence. The
least that should have been done, I thought, was to lay stress
on our political objective, to make it clear again, and, if pos-
sible, to add to it social and economic objectives Instead of
this, the discussion seems to have been entirely confined to the
relative merits of mass and individual civil disobedience, and
the desirability or otherwise of secrecy. There was also some
strange talk of ‘peace* with the Government. Gandhiji sent
a telegram to the Viceroy, as far as I remember, asking for an

386 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

interview, to which the Viceroy replied with a ‘ No and then
Gandhiji sent a second telegram mentioning something about
‘honourable peace’. Where was this elusive peace that was
being sought, when the Government was triumphantly trying
to crush the nation in every way, and people were starving to
death in the Andamans? But I knew that, whatever happened,
it was Gandhiji’s way always to offer the olive branch.

Repression was going on in full swing, and all the special laws
suppressing public activities were in force. In February 1933
even a memorial meeting on my father’s death anniversary was
prohibited by the police, although it was a non-Congress meet-
ing, and such a good Moderate as Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru was
to have presided over it. And as a vision of future favours to
come we had been presented with the White Paper.

This was a remarkable document, a perusal of which left one
gasping for breath. India was to be converted into a glorified
Indian State, with a dominating influence of the States’ feudal
representatives in the Federation. But in the States themselves
no outside interference would be tolerated, and undiluted
autocracy would continue to prevail there. The real imperial
links, the chains of debt, would bind us for ever to the City of
London, and the currency and monetary policy would also be
controlled, through a Reserve Bank, by the Bank of England.
There would be an impregnable defence of all vested rights,
and additional vested interests were going to be created. Our
revenues were mortgaged up to the hilt for the benefit of these
vested interests. The great imperial services, which we love so
much, would continue uncontrolled and untouched, to train us
for further instalments of self-government. There was going to
be Provincial Autonomy, but the Governor would be a benevo-
lent and all-powerful dictator keeping us in order. And high
above all would sit the All-Highest, the supreme Dictator, the
Viceroy, with complete powers to do what he will and check
when ne desires. Truly, the genius of the British ruling class
for colonial government was never more in evidence, and well
may the Hitlers and Mussolinis admire them and look with
envy on the Viceroy of India.

Having produced a constitution which tied up India hand
and foot, a collection of ‘ special responsibilities ’ and safeguards
were added as additional letters, making the unhappy country
a prisoner Incapable of movement. As Mr. Neville Chamber-
laiasaid: "They had done their best to surround the proposals
*^ *0 the safeguards the wit of man could devise.”

Further, we were informed that for these favours we would

‘DUAL policy’ OF BRITISH GOVERNMENT 387

have to pay heavily — to begin with a lump sum of a few crores,
and then annual payment. We could not have the blessings
of Swaraj without adequate payment. We had been suffering
under the delusion that India was poverty-stricken and already
had too heavy a burden to carry, and we had looked to freedom
to lighten it. That had been for the masses the urge for free-
dom. But it now appeared that the burden was to become
heavier.

This Gilbertian solution of the Indian problem was offered
with true British grace, and we were told how generous our
rulers were. Never before had an imperial Power of its own
free will offered such power and opportunities to a subject
people. And a great debate arose in England between the
donors and those who, horrified at such generosity, objected to
it. This was the outcome of the many comings and goings
between India and England during three years, of the three
Round Table Conferences, and innumerable committees and
consultations.

But the visits to England were not over yet. There was the
Joint Select Committee of the British Parliament which was
going to sit in judgment on the White Paper, and Indians went
to it as a kind of assessors and as witnesses. There were also
many other committees sitting in London, and there was an
undignified scramble behind the scenes for membership of any
committee which meant a free passage to and stay in the heart
of the Empire. Brave men, undaunted by the petrifying pro-
visions of the White Paper, undertook to face the perils of the
sea voyage or the air journey, and the greater dangers of a
stay in London dty in order to attempt, with all the eloquence
and power of persuasion at their command, to vary the pro-
visions of the White Paper. They knew and said that the task
was an almost hopeless one, but they were no quitters, and
would continue to have their say even though there was no
one to listen to them. One of them, a leader of the Responsi-
vists, stuck on till the bitter end, when all others had left,
probably having interview after interview and dinner after
dinner with the men in authority in London, so that he might
impress upon them what political changes he desired. When at
last he returned to his native land, he informed an expectant
public that, with the well-known tenacity of the Marathas, he
had refused to give up his job, and had stayed on in London
to have his say to the very end.

I remember a frequent complaint of my father’s that his
Responsivist friends had no sense of humour. He often got

388 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

into trouble with them because of his humorous remarks,
which were not appreciated by them at all, and then he had to
explain and soothe — a tiring operation. And I thought of the
fine fighting spirit of the Marathas, not only in the past but
in the present during our national struggles, and of the great
and indomitable Tilak, who would not bend though he break.

The Liberals utterly disliked the White Paper. They also
had no liking for the repression that was going on from day
to day in India, and sometimes though rarely, even protested
against it, always making it clear that they condemned the
Congress and all its works. They would suggest to Government
occasionally to release some prominent Congressman from
prison — they could only think in terms of individuals they knew.
The argument advanced, both by the Liberals and Responsi-
visits, was that so-and-so should be released as there was no
longer any danger to the public peace. And then it is always
open to the Government to re-arrest that person if he mis-
behaves, and Government could do so with more justification.
Some people in England also were good enough to plead for the
release of some members of the Working Committee, or special
individuals, on these grounds. We could not help being grate-
ful to people who were interested in us while we were in prison,
but we felt also sometimes that it would be a good thing if
we were saved from our well-meaning friends. We did not
doubt their good intentions, but it was obvious that they had
adopted completely the ideology of the British Government,
and between them and us there was a wide chasm.

The Liberals did not like much that was happening in India;
they were unhappy about it, and yet what were they to do?
It was unthinkable for them to take any effective action against
Government. Merely to preserve themselves as a separate entity
they had to retreat further away from the masses and the active
elements in the population; to drift to the Right, till their
ideology was hardly distinguishable from that of the Govern-
ment. Small in numbers, and with no mass influence, they
could not make any difference to a mass struggle. But among
them were some distinguished and well-known persons who
were personally respected. And these leaders, as well as the
Liberal and Responsivist groups as a whole, did an inestimable
service to the British Government at a moment of grave crisis
by a moral support of the official policy. Even the coercion
and lawlessness of Government profited by the lack of effective
atticism and occasional acquiescence and approval of the
Liberals. Thus the Liberals and Responsivists gave a moral

‘IMJAL POLICY’ OF BRITISH GOVERNMENT 389

sanction to the fierce and unprecedented coercion that was
going on in the country at a time when the Government was
hard put to it to justify it.

The White Paper was bad, very bad, so said the Liberal
leaders. What was to be done about it? At the Liberal Federa-
tion meeting held in Calcutta in April 1933, Mr. Srinivasa
Sastri, the most eminent of the Liberal leaders, pleaded that
however unsatisfactory the constitutional changes might be
they should work them. " This is no time to stand by and let
things pass,” he said. The only action that apparently was
conceivable to him was to accept what was given and to try to
work it. The alternative to this was doing nothing. Further
he added : “ If wc have wisdom, experience, moderation, power
of persuasion, quiet influence, and real efficiency — if we have
these virtues, this is the time to display them in the fullest
strength.” “ Shining words ” was the Calcutta Statesman’s com-
ment on this eloquent appeal.

Mr. Sastri is always eloquent, and has the orator’s love of
fine words and their musical use. But he is apt to be carried
away by his enthusiasms, and the word-magic that he creates
blurs his meaning to others and perhaps to himself. It is worth
while examining this appeal he made at Calcutta in April 1933
during the continuance of the Civil Disobedience Movement.
Fundamental principles and objectives apart, two points seem
to me worthy of note. The first is that whatever happens,
however much we might be insulted, crushed, humiliated, and
exploited by the British Government, we must submit to it.
The line can never be drawn beyond which we must not go.
A worm may turn, but not the Indian people if they followed
Mr. Sastri’s advice. There is no other way according to him.
'lhis means that, so far as he is concerned, submission to and
acceptance of the British Government’s decisions is tantamount
to a religion (if I may use that unfortunate word). It is the
fate — Kismet — to which all of us have to bow whether we want
to or not.

It must be noted that he was not giving advic£ on a definite,
known situation. The ' constitutional changes ' were still in the
making, though one had a fair notion that they would be very
bad. If he had said that, bad as the White Paper proposals are,
having regard to all the circumstances, I am in favour of work-
ing them, should they be enacted, his advice might have been
good or bad, but it had relation to existing facts. Mr. Sastri
went much further, and said that however unsatisfactory the
constitutional changes might be his advice would hold. He was

39 ° JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

prepared to give a blank cheque to the British Government on
the most vital matter from the nation’s view-point. It is a little
difficult for me to understand how any individual, group, or
party, can take up this attitude of commitment to an unforeseen
future, unless it has no principles or moral and political stan-
dards whatever, and has for its creed and policy invariable
subservience to the ruler’s mandates.

The second point that strikes me is one of pure tactics. The
White Paper was one stage in the long march to the enactment
of the new reforms. It was, from Government’s point of view,
an important stage, but many stages remained, and it was
possible that it might be altered for better or worse during its
subsequent journey. These alterations would obviously depend
on the pressure brought to bear on the British Government
and Parliament from various interests. In this tug-of-war it
was conceivable that the desire to win over the Indian Liberals
to its side might have influenced the Government and induced
it to liberalise the proposals, or at least to resist encroachments.
But Mr. Sastri’s emphatic declaration, long before the question
of acceptance or rejection, working or not working the new
reforms arose, made it clear to the Government that they could
completely ignore the Indian Liberals. There was no question
of winning them over. They would not desert the Govern-
ment, even if they were pushed out. Looking at the matter
from the Liberal view-point, as far as I can, Mr. Sastri’s speech
at Calcutta seems to me to have been extraordinarily bad tactics
and injurious to the Liberal cause.

I have ventured to write so much on Mr. Sastri’s old speech,
not because of any intrinsic importance of that speech or the
Liberal Federation meeting, but because of my desire to under-
stand the mentality and psychology of the Liberal leaders.
They are able and estimable men, and yet, with the best will
in the world, I have been wholly unable to appreciate why they
act as they do. Another speech of Mr. Sastn’s, which I read in
prison, innuenced me greatly. He was addressing the Servants
of India Society, of which he is president, at Poona in June
1933. He is reported to have pointed the danger in India
if British influence were suddenly withdrawn, of political
movements being marked by acute hatred, persecution, and
oppression of one party by another. On the other hand, tolera-
tion having throughout been a feature of British political life,
the more India’s future is worked out in co-operation with
Britain, the greater the likelihood of toleration prevailing in
India. Being in prison, I have to rely on the summary of

‘Dual policy’ of British government 391

Mr. Sastri’s speech given by the Statesman of Calcutta. The
Statesman added : 41 It is a pleasant doctrine, and we note that
Doctor Moonje has been speaking in the same sense.” Mr.
Sastri is further reported to have referred to the suppression
of freedom in Russia, Italy, and Germany, and to the in-
humanities and savageries that were being perpetrated there.

It struck me, when I read this, how extraordinarily similar
was Mr. Sastri’s outlook in regard to Britain and India to that
of the 4 diehard’ British Conservative. In matters of detail
there were no doubt differences, but fundamentally the ideology
was the same. Mr. Winston Churchill could have expressed
himself in identical language without doing any violence to his
convictions. And yet Mr. Sastri belongs to the Left wing of the
Liberal party, and is the ablest of its leaders.

I am afraid I am wholly unable to accept Mr. Sastri’s reading
of history, or his views on world affairs, and more particularly
on Britain and India. Probably no foreigner, who is not an
Englishman, will accept them; possibly many Englishmen of
advanced views will disagree with him. It is his happy gift
to see the world and his own country through the tinted glasses
of the British ruling class. Nevertneless, it is remarkable that
he should ignore in this speech the very unusual occurrence
which had taken place from day to day in India during the
previous eighteen months, and were taking place at the time
the speech was delivered. He referred to Kussia, Italy, and
Germany, but not to the fierce repression and suppression of all
liberties in his own country. He may not have known of all
the terrible occurrences in the Frontier Province and in Bengal
— the 4 rape of Bengal ’ as Rajendra Babu has called it in his
recent Congress presidential address — as the heavy veil of cen-
sorship hid much of what was happening. But was he oblivious
to the agony of India and the struggle for life and freedom
that his people were waging against a powerful adversary? Did
he not know of the police raj that prevailed over large areas,
of conditions resembling martial law, of the Ordinances, of
the hunger-strikes, and other sufferings in prison? Did he not
realise fhat the veiy toleration and freedom for which he
praised Britain had been crushed by Britain herself in India?

It did not matter whether he agreed with the Congress or
not. He was perfectly entitled to criticise and condemn Con-
gress policy. But as an Indian, as a lover of freedom, as a
sensitive man, what were his reactions to the wonderful courage
and sacrifice of his countrymen and countrywomen? Did he
not feel any pain and anguish when our rulers played with a

393 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

hatchet on India’s heart? Was it nothing to him that scores
of thousands were refusing to bend before the physical might
of a proud empire, and preferred to see their bodies crushed,
their homes broken, their dear ones suffer, rather than yield
their souls? We put on a brave face in gaol or outside, and
smiled and laughed, but 'we smiled often through our tears, and
our laughter was sometimes near to crying.

Mr. Verrier Elwin, a brave and generous Englishman, tells
us what his reactions were. “It was a wonderful experience,”
he says of 1930, "to watch a whole nation throwing off its
mental bonds of servitude and rising to its true dignity of
fearless determination.” And again: “The amazing discipline
exhibited by most of the Congress volunteers during the
Satyagraha struggle, a discipline to which one of the provincial
Governors has borne generous testimony. . . .”

Mr. Srinivasa Sastri is an able and sensitive man who is widely
respected by his countrymen, and it seems impossible that he
would not react in the same way and feel for his countrymen
during such a struggle. One would have expected him to raise
his voice in denunciation of the suppression of all civil liberty
and all public activities by the Government. One would further
have hoped that he and his colleagues would personally visit
the worst affected areas — Bengal and the Frontier — not in any
way to help the Congress or civil disobedience, but to expose
ana thus check official and police excesses. This is usually done
by the lovers of freedom and civil liberty in other countries.
But instead of acting in this way, instead of trying to check
the executive when it was riding rough-shod over India’s men
and womon and had done away with even the usual liberties;
instead at least of finding out what was happening, he chose
to give a certificate to the British for toleration and freedom

i 'ust when both of these virtues were completely lacking under
British rule in India. He gave them his moral backing and
thus heartened and encouraged them in their task of repression.

I am quite sure that he could not have meant this or realised
the consequences of his action. But that his speech must have
had this effect cannot be doubted. Why, then, should he think
and act in this manner?

I have found no adequate answer to this question except that
the Liberal leaden have cut themselves completely aloof from
their countrymen as well as from all modern thought. The
musty books that they read have shut out the people of India
from their view, and they have developed a kind of narcissism.
We went to gaol and our bodies were locked up in cells, but

'DUAL POLICY* OF BRITISH GOVERNMENT 393

our minds ranged free and our spirits were undismayed. But
they created mental prisons of their own fashioning, where
they went round and round and from which they round no
escape. They worshipped the God of Things as they are; and
when things changed, as they do in this changing world, they
were without rudder and compass, helpless in mind and body,
without ideals or moral values. The choice for each one of us
always is to go forward or be pushed; we cannot remain static
in a dynamic universe. Afraid of change and movement, the
Liberals were frightened at the tempests that surrounded them;
weak of limb, they could not go forward, and so they were
tossed hither and thither, clutching at every straw that came
their way. They became the Hamlets of Indian politics,
44 sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought ”, ever doubting,
hesitating, and irresolute.

44 The time is out of joint. O cursed spite!

That ever I was born to set it right.”

The Servant of India, a Liberal weekly, accused Congress-
men, during the latter days of the Civil Disobedience Move
ment, of wanting to go to prison, and when they got there
wanting to come out again. That, it said with some irritation,
was the sole Congress policy. The Liberal alternative to that,
apparently, was to send a deputation to England to wait on the
British ministers, or to wait and pray for a change of Govern-
ment in England.

It was true, to some extent, that the Congress policy then was
mainly one of defiance of the Ordinance laws and other re-
pressive measures, and this led to gaol. It was also true that
the Congress and the nation were exhausted after the long
struggle and could not bring any effective pressure on the
Government. But there was a practical and moral consideration.

Naked coercion, as India was experiencing, is an expensive
affair for the rulers. Even for them it is a painful and nerve-
shaking ordeal, and they know well that ultimately it weakens
their foundations. It exposes continually the real character of
their rule, both to the people coerced and the world at large.
They infinitely prefer to put on the velvet glove to hide the
iron fist. Nothing is more irritating and, in the final analysis,
harmful to a Government than to have to deal with people who
will not bend to its will, whatever the consequences. So even
sporadic defiance of the repressive measures had value; it
strengthened the people and sapped the morale of Government,

394 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

The moral consideration was even more important. In a
famous passage Thoreau has said : “At a time when men and
women are unjustly imprisoned the place for just men and
women is also in prison/’ This advice may not appeal to
Liberals and others, but many of us often feel that a moral life
under existing conditions is intolerable, when, even apart from
civil disobedience, many of our colleagues are always in prison
and the coercive apparatus of the State is continually repress-
ing us and humiliating us, as well as helping in the exploitation
of our people. In our own country we move about as suspects,
shadowed and watched, our words recorded lest they infringe
the all-pervading law of sedition, our correspondence opened,
the possibility of some executive prohibition or arrest always
facing us. For us the choice is : abject submission to the power
of the State, spiritual degradation, the denial of the truth that
is in us, and our moral prostitution for purposes that we con-
sider base — or opposition with all the consequences thereof. No
one likes to go to gaol or to invite trouble. But often gaol is
preferable to the other alternative. u The only real tragedy in
life,” as Bernard Shaw has written, u is the being used by per-
sonally minded men for purposes which you know to be base.
All the rest is at the worst mere misfortune and mortality : this
alone is misery, slavery, hell on earth.”

XLIX

THE END OF A LONG TERM

The time for my discharge was drawing near. I had received
the usual remissions for ‘ good behaviour ’, and this had reduced
my two-year term by three and half months. My peace of
mind, or rather the general dullness of the mind wnich prison
produces, was being disturbed by the excitement created by the
prospect of release. What must I do outside? A difficult
question, and the hesitation I had in answering it took away
from the joy of going out. But even that was a momentary
feeling, and my long-suppressed energy was bubbling up and
I was eager to be out.

The end of July 1933 brought a painful and very disturbing
piece of news — the sudden death of J. M. Sen-Gupta. We had
not only been close colleagues on the Congress Working Com-
mittee for many years, but he was also a link with my early
Cambridge days. We met in Cambridge first — I was a freshman,
and he had just taken his degree.

Sen-Gupta died under detention. He had been made a State
prisoner on his return from Europe early in 1932, while he was
yet on board ship in Bombay. Since then he had been a
prisoner or a detenu, and his health had deteriorated. Various
facilities were given to him by the Government, but evidently
they could not check the course of the disease. His funeral in
Calcutta was the occasion for a remarkable mass demonstration
and tribute; it seemed that the long pent-up suffering soul of
Bengal had found an outlet for a while at least.

So Sen-Gupta had gone. Subhas Bose, another State prisoner
whose health had broken down by years of interment and
prison, had at last been permitted by the Government to go to
Europe for treatment. The veteran Vithabhbhai Patel also lay ill
in Europe. And how many others had broken* down in health
or died, unable to stand the physical strain of gaol life and
ceaseless activity outside 1 How many, though outwardly not
much changed, had suffered deeper mental derangements and
developed complexes on account of the abnormal lives they
had been made to lead!

Sen-Gupta’s death made me vividly aware of all this terrible,
silent suffering going on throughout the country, and I felt
weary and depressed. To what end was all this? To what end?

395

39«

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

I had been fortunate about my own health, and in spite of
the strains and irregular life of Congress activity I had, on the
whole, kept well. Partly, I suppose, this was due to a good
constitution I had inherited, partly to my care of the body.
Illness and weak health as well as too much fat seemed to me

a most unbecoming state of affairs, and with the help of
exercise, plenty of fresh air, and simple food, I managed to keep
away from them. My own experience has been mat a vast
proportion of the ailments of the Indian middle classes are
caused by wrong feeding; the food is both rich and excessive.
(This applies only to those who can afford such wasteful habits.)
The fond mother lays the firm foundation of life-long indiges-
tion by over-feeding the child with sweets and other so-called
dainties. The child is also muffled up in too many clothes.
The English people in India also seem to eat for too much,
although their food is less rich. Probably they have improved
a little from the older generation which used to consume
enormous quantities of food, hot and strong.

I have cared little for food fads, and have only avoided over-
eating and rich foods. Like nearly all Kashmiri Brahmans our
family was a meat-eating one, and from childhood onwards I
had always taken meat, although I never fancied it much. With
the coming of Non-Co-operation in 1920 I gave up meat and
became a vegetarian. I remained a vegetarian till a visit to
Europe six years later, when I relapsed to meat-eating. On my
return to India I became a vegetarian again, and since then I
have been more or less a vegetarian. Meat-eating seems to
agree with me well, but I have developed a distaste for it, and
it gives me a feeling of coarseness.

My periods of ill-health, chiefly in prison in 1932, when for

many months I got a rise of temperature every day, annoyed
me, because they hurt my conceit of good health. And for the
first time I did not think, as I used to do, in terms of abounding
life and energy, but a spectre of a gradual decay and a wearing
away rose up before me and alarmed me. I do not think I am

E articularlv frightened of death. But a slow deterioration,
odily ana mental, was quite another matter. However, my
fears proved exaggerated, and I managed to get rid of the indis-
position and bnng my body under control. Long sun-baths
during foe winter helped me to get back my feeling of well-
bong. White my companions in prison would shiver in their
cotta and shawls, I would sit, bare-bodied, delightfully warmed
up>by the sun’s embrace. This was only possible in North India
during the winter, as elsewhere the sun is usually too hot.

THE END OF A LONG TERM 397

Among my exercises one pleased me particularly — the
shirshdsana, standing on the head with the palms of the hands,
fingers interlocked, supporting the back of the head, elbows on
the floor, body vertical, upside down. I suppose physically this
exercise is very good : I liked it even more tor its psychological
effect on me. The slightly comic position increased my good
humour and made me a little more tolerant of life’s vagaries.

My usual good health and the bodily sense of well-being
have been of very great help to me in getting over periods of
depression, which are inevitable in prison life. They have
helped me also in accommodating myself to ’changing con-
ditions in prison or outside. I have had many shocks, which
at the time seemed to bowl me over, but to my own surprise I
have recovered sooner than I expected. I suppose a test of my
fundamental sobriety and sanity is the fact that I hardly know
what a bad headache is, nor have I ever been troubled with
insomnia. I have escaped these common diseases of civilisation,
as also bad eyesight, in spite of excessive use of the eyes for
reading and writing, sometimes in a bad light in gaol. An
eye specialist expressed his amazement last year at my good
eyesight. Eight years before he had prophesied that I would
have to take to spectacles in another year or two. He was very
much mistaken, and I am still carrying on successfully without
them. Although these facts might establish my reputation for
sobriety and sanity, I might add that I have a horror of people
who are inescapably and unchangingly sane and sober.

While I waited for my discharge from prison, the new form
of civil disobedience for individuals was beginning outside.
Gandhiji decided to give the lead and, after giving full notice
to the authorities, he started on August ist with the intention
of preaching civil resistance to the Gujrat peasantry. He was
immediately arrested, sentenced to one year, and sent back
again to his cell in Yeravda. I was glad he had gone back.
But soon a new complication arose. Gandhiji claimed the same
facilities for carrying on Harijan work from prison as he had
had before; the Government refused to grant them. Suddenly
we heard that Gandhiji had started fasting again on this issue.
It seemed an extraordinarily trivial matter for such a tremen-
dous step. It was quite impossible for me to understand his
decision, even though he might be completely right in his
argument with the Government. We could do nothing, and we
looked on, bewildered.

After a week of the fast his condition grew rapidly worse. He
had been removed to a hospital, but he was still a prisoner

398

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and Government would not give in on the question of facilities
for Harijan work. He lost the will to live (which he had during
his previous fasts) and allowed himself to go down hill. The
end seemed to be near. He said good-bye and even made dis-
positions about the few personal articles that were lying about
him, giving some to the nurses. But the Government had no
intention of allowing him to die on their hands, and that
evening he was suddenly discharged. It was just in time to
save him. Another day and perhaps it would have been too
late. Probably a great deal of the credit for saving him
should go to C. F. Andrews who had rushed to India, contrary
to Gandhiji’s advice.

Meanwhile I was transferred from Dehra Dun Gaol on

August 23rd, and I returned to Naini Prison after more than
a year and a half’s residence in other gaols. Just then news
came of my mother’s sudden illness and her removal to hos-
pital. On the 30th August, 1933, I was discharged from Naini
because my mother’s condition was considered serious. Ordi-
narily I would have been released, at the latest, on September
nth when my term expired. I was thus given an additional
thirteen days of remission by the Provincial Government.

A VISIT TO GANDHIJI

Immediately after my release, I hastened to Lucknow to my
mother’s bed-side, and I remained with her for some days. I
had come out of prison after a fairly long period, and I felt
detached and out of touch with my surroundings. I realised
with a little shock, as we all do, that the world had gone on
moving and changing while I lay stagnating in prison. Chil-
dren and boys ana girls growing up, marriages, births, deaths;
love and hate, work and play, tragedy and comedy. New
interests in life, new subjects for conversation, always there was
a little element of surprise in what I saw and heard. Life
seemed to have passed by, leaving me in a backwater. It was
not a wholly pleasant feeling. Soon I would have adapted
myself to my environment, but I felt no urge to do so. I realised
that I was only having a brief outing outside prison, and
would have to go back again before long. So why trouble
myself about adaptation to something which I would leave
soon?

Politically, India was more or less quiet; public activities were
largely controlled and suppressed by the Government, and ar-
rests occasionally took place. But the silence of India then was
full of significance. It was the ominous silence which follows ex-
haustion after experiencing a period of fierce repression, a
silence which is often very eloquent, but is beyond the ken of
governments that repress. India was the ideal police state, and
the police mentality pervaded all spheres of government. Out-
wardly all non-conformity was suppressed, and a vast army of
spies and secret agents covered the land. There was an atmo-
sphere of demoralisation and an all-pervading fear among the
people. Any political activity, especially in the rural areas, was
immediately suppressed, and the various provincial govern-
ments were trying to hound out Congressmen from the ser-
vice of municipalities and local boards. Every person who
had. been to prison as a civil resister was unfit, according to
Government, for teaching in a municipal school or serving the
municipality in any other way. Great pressure was brought to
bear on municipalities, etc., and threats were held out that
Government grants would be stopped, if the offending Con-
gressmen were not dismissed. The most notorious example of

400 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

this coercion took place in the Calcutta Corporation. Ulti-
mately, I believe, the Bengal Government passed a law against
the employment by the Corporation of persons who had been
convicted for political offences.

Reports of Nazi excesses in Germany had a curious effect
on British officials and their Press in India. They gave them
a justification for all they had done in India, and it was pointed
out to us, with a glow of conscious virtue, how much worse
our lot would have been if the Nazis had had anything to do
with us. New standards and records had been set up by the
Nazis, and it was certainly not an easy matter to rival them.
Perhaps our lot would have been worse; it is difficult for me to
judge for I have not all the facts of the occurrences that have
taken place in various parts of India during the past five years.
The British Government in India believes in the charity that
its right hand should not know what its left hand does, and so
it has turned down every suggestion for an impartial enquiry,
although such enquiries are always weighted on the official
side. I think it is true that the average Englishman hates
brutality, and I cannot conceive English people openly glorying
in and repeating lovingly the word ‘ Brutahtat ’ (or its English
equivalent) as the Nazis do. Even when they indulge in the
deed, they are a little ashamed of it. But whether we are
Germans or English or Indians, I am afraid our veneer of
civilised conduct is thin enough, and when passions are aroused
it rubs off and reveals something that is not good to look at.
The Great War brutalised humanity terribly, and we saw the
aftermath of this in that awful hunger blockade of Germany
even after the Armistice — "one of the most senseless, brutal
and hideous atrocities ever committed by any nation” as an
English writer has described it. The years 1857 and 1858 have
not been forgotten in India. Whenever the challenge to
our own interests is made we forget our good breeding and
society manners, and untruth becomes ‘ propaganda ’, and
brutality ‘ scientific repression ’ and the preservation of ‘ law and
order \

It is not the fault of individuals or any particular people.
More or less every one behaves so under similar circumstances.
In India, and in every country under foreign domination, there
is always a latent challenge to the ruling power, and from time
to time this becomes more obvious and threatening. This
challenge always develops the military virtues and vices in the
ruling groups^ We have had evidence of these military virtues
and vices in a superlative degree in India during the last few

A VISIT TO CANDHIJI 4OI

yean, because our challenge had become powerful and effective.
But to some extent we have always to put up with the military
mind (or absence of it) in India. That is one of the conse-
quences of Empire, and it degrades both the parties involved.
The degradation of Indians is obvious enough, the other degra-
dation is more subtle, but in times of crisis it becomes patent.
Then there is a third group, which has the misfortune to share
in both types of degradation.

I have had ample leisure in gaol to read the speeches of high
officials, their answers to questions in the Assembly and Coun-
cils, and Government statements. I noticed, during the last
three years, a marked change coming over them, and this
change became progressively more and more obvious. They
became more threatening and minatory, developing more and
more in the style of a sergeant-major addressing his men. A
remarkable example of this was a speech delivered by the
Commissioner of, I think, the Midnapur Division in Bengal in
November or December 1933. Vae victis seems to run like
a thread through these utterances. Non-official Europeans, in
Bengal especially, go even further than the official variety, and
both in their speeches and actions have shown a very decided
Fascist tendency.

Yet another revealing instance of brutalisation was the
recent public hangings of some convicted criminals in Sind.
Because crime was on the increase in Sind the authorities there
decided to execute these criminals publicly, as a warning to
others. Every facility was given to the public to attend and
watch this ghastly spectacle, and it is said that many thousands
came.

So after my discharge from prison, I surveyed political and
economic conditions in India, and felt little enthusiasm at them.
Many of my comrades were in prison, fresh arrests continued,
all the Ordinance laws were in operation, censorship throttled
the Press and upet our correspondence. A colleague of mine,
Rafi Ahmad Kidwai, was greatly irritated at the vagaries of
the censor regarding his correspondence. Letters would be held
up and came very late, or would get lost, and this would upset
his engagements. He wanted to appeal to the censor to do his
job a little more efficiently, but who was he to write to? The
censor was not a public official. He was probably some C.I.D.
officer working secretly, whose existence and work were not
even acknowledged openly. Rafi Ahmad solved the difficulty
by writing to the censor, and addressing the envelope of this
letter to himself 1 Sure enough the letter reached its proper

403 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

destination, and there was some improvement afterwards in
Rafi Ahmad's correspondence.

I had no desire to go back to prison. I had had enough of it.
But I could not see how I could escape it under the existing
circumstances, unless I decided to retire from all political
activity. I had no such intention, and so I felt that I was
bound to come into conflict with the Government. At any
moment some order might be served on me to do something,
or to abstain from doing something, and all my nature rebelled
at being forced to act in a particular way. An attempt was
being made to cow down and coerce the people of India. I was
helpless, and could do nothing on the wider field, but, at any
rate, I could refuse personally to be cowed down and coerced
into submission.

Before I went back to prison I wanted to attend to certain
matters. My mother’s illness claimed my attention first of all.
Very slowly she improved; the process was so slow that for a
year she was bed-ridden. I was eager to see Gandhiji, who lay
recovering from his latest fast in Poona. For over two yean
I had not met him. I also wanted to meet as many of my
provincial colleagues as possible to discuss, not only the existing
political situation in India, but the world situation as well as
the ideas that filled my mind. I thought then that the world
was going rapidly towards a catastrophe, political and economic,
and we ought to keep this in mind in drawing up our national

programmes.

My household affairs also claimed my attention. I had
ignored them completely so far, and I had not even examined
my father’s papers since his death. We had cut down our
expenditure greatly, but still it was far more than we could
afford. And yet it was difficult to reduce it further, so long as
we lived in that house of ours. We were not keeping a car
because that was beyond our means, and also because, at any
moment, it could be attached by Government. Faced by finan-
cial difficulties, I was diverted by the large mail of begging
letters that I received. (The censor passed the lot on.) There

was a general and very erroneous impression, especially in
South India, that I was a wealthy person.

Soon after my release my younger sister, Krishna, got en-
gaged to he married and I was anxious to have the wedding
early, before my enforced departure took place. Krishna herself
had come out of prison a few months earlier after serving out

a year.

; As soon as my mother’s health permitted it, I went to Poona

A VISIT TO GANDHIJI 403

to see Gandhiji. I was happy to see him again and to find that,
though weak, he was making good progress. We had long
talks. It was obvious that we differed considerably in our out-
look on life and politics and economics, but I was* grateful to
him for the generous way in which he tried to come as for as
he could to meet my view point. Our correspondence, subse-
quently published, dealt with some of the wider issues that
filled my mind, and though they were referred to in vague
language, the general drift was clear. I was happy to have
Gandhiji’s declaration that there must be a de-vestmg of vested
interests, though he laid stress that this should be by conversion,
not compulsion. As some of his methods of conversion are not
far removed, to my thinking, from courteous and considerate
compulsion, the difference did not seem to me very great. I had
the feeling with him then, as before, that though he might be
averse to considering vague theories, the logic of facts would
take him, step by step, to the inevitability of fundamental
social changes. He was a curious phenomenon — a person of the
type of a medieval Catholic saint, as Mr. Verrier Elwin has called
him — and at the same time a practical leader with his pulse
always on the Indian peasantry. Which way he might turn in
a crisis it was difficult to say, but whichever way it was, it would
make a difference. He might go the wrong way, according to
our thinking, but it would always be a straight way. It was
good to work with him, but if necessity arose then different
roads would have to be followed.

For the present, I thought then, this question did not arise.
We were in the middle of our national struggle and civil diso-
bedience was still the programme in theory, of the Congress,
although it had been restricted to individuals. We must carry
on as we are and try to spread socialistic ideas among the
people, and especially among the more politically-conscious
Congress workers, so that when the time came for another
declaration of policy we might be ready for a notable advance.
Meanwhile, Congress was an unlawful organisation, and the
British Government was trying to crush it. We had to meet
that attack.

The principal problem which faced Gandhiji was a personal
one. What was he to do himself? He was in a tangle. If he
went to gaol again the same question of Harijan privileges
would arise and, presumably, the Government would not give
in, and he would fast again. Would the same round be re-
peated? He refused to submit to such a cat-and-mouse policy,
and said that if he fasted again for those privileges, the fast

4<H JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

would continue even though he was released. That meant a
fast to death.

The second possible course before him was not to court
imprisonment during the year of his sentence (ten and a half
months of this remained still) and devote himself to Harijan
work. But at the same time he would meet Congress workers
and advise them when necessary.

A third possibility he suggested to me was that he should
retire from the Congress altogether for a while, and leave it in
the hands of the " younger generation,” as he put it.

The first course, ending, as it seemed, in his death by star-
vation, was impossible for any one of us to recommend. The
third seemed very undesirable when the Congress was an illegal
body. It would either result in the immediate withdrawal of
civil disobedience and all forms of direct action and a going
back to legality and constitutional activity, or to a Congress,
outlawed and isolated, now even from Gandhiji, being crushed
still further by Government. Besides, there was no question of
any group taking possession of an illegal organisation which
could not meet and discuss any policy. By a process of ex-
clusion we arrived thus at the second course of action suggested
by him. Most of us disliked it, and we knew that it would give
a heavy blow to the remains of civil disobedience. If the
leader had himself retired from the fight, it was not likely that
many enthusiastic Congress workers would jump into the fire.
But there seemed no other way out of the tangle, and Gandhiji
made his announcement accordingly.

We agreed, Gandhiji and I, though perhaps for different
reasons, that the time was not yet for a withdrawal of civil
disobedience and we must carry on even at a low-ebb. For the
rest, I wanted to turn people’s attention to socialistic doctrines
and the world situation.

I spent a few days in Bombay on my way back. I was for-
tunate in catching Udai Shankar there and seeing his dancing.
This was an unexpected treat which I enjoyed greatly. Theatres,
music, cinema, talkies, radio and broadcasting — all this had
been beyond my reach for many years, for even during my
intervals of freedom I was too engrossed in other activities. I
have only been once to a talkie so far, and the great names of
cinema stars, are names only to me. I have missed the theatre
especially, and I have often read with envy of new productions
in foreign countries. In northern India, even when I was out
of gaol, there was little opportunity of seeing good plays, for
there were hardly any within reach. I believe the Bengali,

A VISIT TO GANDKIJI 405

Gujr&ti and Marathi drama has made some progress; not so
the Hindustani stage, which is, or was (for I do not know the
latest developments) terribly crude and inartistic. I am told
most of the Indian films. Doth silent and talkies, do not err
on the side of artistry. They are usually operettes or melo-
dramas, drawing upon some theme from old Indian history or
mythology.

I suppose they supply what is most appreciated by the city
people. The contrast between these crude and painful shows
ana the still surviving artistry of the folk-song and -dance, and
even village drama, is very marked. In Bengal, in Gujrat and
in the south, one discovers sometimes, with a shock of pleasant
surprise, how fundamentally, and yet unconsciously, artistic the
mass of the village people are. Not so the middle classes; they
seem to have lost their roots and have no aesthetic tradition to
cling to. They glory in cheap and horrid prints made in bulk
in Germany and Austria, and sometimes even rise to Ravi
Varma’s pictures. The harmonium is their favourite instru-
ment. (I live in hope that one of the earliest acts of the Swaraj
government will be to ban this awful instrument.) But perhaps
the height of painful incongruity and violation of all artistic
codes is met with in the houses of most big taluqadars in
Lucknow or elsewhere. They have money to spend ana a desire
to show off, and they do so; and the people who visit them are
the pained witnesses of the fulfilment of this desire.

Recently there has been an artistic awakening, led by the
brilliant Tagore family, and its influence is already apparent
all over India. But how can any art flourish widely when the
people of the country are hampered and restricted and sup-
pressed at every turn and live in an atmosphere of fear?

In Bombay I met many friends and comrades, some only
recently out of prison. The socialistic element was strong there,
and there was much resentment at recent happenings in the
upper ranks of the Congress. Gandhiji was severely criticised
for his metaphysical outlook applied to politics. With much
of the criticism I was in agreement, but I was quite clear that,
situated as we were, we had little choice in the matter and had
to carry on. Any attempt to withdraw civil disobedience would
have brought no relief to us, for the Government’s offensive
would continue and all effective work would inevitably lead to
prison. Our national movement had arrived at a stage when it
had to be suppressed by Government, or it would impose its will
on the British Government. This meant that it had arrived at a
stage when it was always likely to be declared illegal und, as a

406 jawaharlal nehru

movement, it could not go back even if civil disobedience was
withdrawn. The continuance of disobedience made little differ*
ence in practice, but it was an act of moral defiance which had
value. It was easier to spread new ideas during a struggle than it
would be when the struggle was wound-up for the time being, and
demoralisation ensued. The only alternative to the struggle was
a compromising attitude to the British authority an<i consti-
tutional action m the councils.

It was a difficult position, and the choice was not an easy one.
I appreciated the mental conflicts of my colleagues, for I had
myself had to face them. But I found there, as I have found
elsewhere in India, some people who wanted to make high
socialistic doctrine a refuge for inaction. It was a little irritating
to find people, who did little themselves, criticise others who
had shouldered the burden in the heat and dust of the fray,
as reactionaries. These parlour Socialists are especially hard on
Gandhiji as the arch-reactionary, and advance arguments which
in logic, leave little to be desired. But the little fact remains
that this ' reactionary ' knows India, understands India, almost
is peasant India, and has shaken up India as no so-called
revolutionary has done. Even his latest Harijan activities have
gently but irresistibly undermined orthodox Hinduism and
shaken it to its foundations. The whole tribe of the Orthodox
have ranged themselves against him, and consider him their
most dangerous enemy, although he continues to treat them
with all gentleness and courtesy. In his own peculiar way he
has a knack of releasing powemil forces which spread out, like
ripples on the water’s surface, and affect millions. Reactionary
or revolutionary, he has changed the face of India, given pride
and character to a cringing and demoralised people, built up
strength and consciousness in the masses, and made the Indian
problem a world problem. Quite apart from the objectives
aimed at and its metaphysical implications, the method of
non-violent non-co-operation or civil resistance is a unique and
powerful contribution of his to India and the world, and there
can be no doubt that it has been peculiarly suited to Indian
conditions.

I think it is right that we should encourage honest criticism,
and have as much public discussion of our problems as possible.
It is unfortunate that Gandhiji’s dominating position has to
some extent prevented this discussion. There was always a ten-
dency to rely on him and to leave the decision to him. This is
-obviously wrong, and the nation can only advance by reasoned
acceptance of objectives and methods, and a co-operation and

A VISIT TO CANDHIJI 407

discipline based on them and not on blind obedience. No one,
however great he may be, should be above criticism. But when
criticism becomes a mere refuge for inaction there is something
wrong with it. For socialists to indulge in this kind of thing
is to invite condemnation from the public, for the masses judge
by acts. “ He who denies the sharp tasks of to-day, says Lenin,
44 in the name of dreams about soft tasks of the future becomes
an opportunist. Theoretically it means to fail to base oneself
on the developments now going on in real life, to detach oneself
from them in the name of dreams/’

Socialists and communists in India are largely nurtured on
literature dealing with the industrial proletariat. In some
selected areas, like Bombay or near Calcutta, large numbers of
factory workers abound, but for the rest India remains agricul-
tural, and the Indian problem cannot be disposed of, or treated
effectively, in terms of the industrial workers. Nationalism and
rural economy are the dominating considerations, and Euro-
pean socialism seldom deals with these. Pre-war conditions in
Russia were a much nearer approach to India, but there again
the most extraordinary and unusual occurrences took place,
and it is absurd to expect a repetition of these anywhere else.
I do believe that the philosophy of communism helps us to
understand and analyse existing conditions in any country, and
further indicates the road to nature progress. But it is doing
violence and injustice to that philosophy to apply it blindfold
and without due regard to facts and conditions.

Life is anyhow a complex affair, and the conflicts and con-
tradictions of life sometimes make one despair a little. It is not
surprising that people should differ, or even that comrades with
a common approach to problems should draw different con-
clusions. But a person who tries to hide his own weakness in
high-sounding phrases and noble principles is apt to be suspect.
A person who tries to save himself from prison by giving
undertakings and assurances to the Government, or by other
dubious conduct, and then has the temerity to criticise others,
is likely to injure the cause he espouses.

Bombay being a vast cosmopolitan city had all manner of
people. One prominent citizen, however, showed a perfectly
remarkable catholicity in his political, economic, social and
religious outlook. As a Labour leader, he was a Socialist; in
politics generally he called himself a Democrat; he was a
favourite of the Hindu Sabha and he promised to protect old
religious and social customs and prevent the legislature from
interfering; at election-time he became the nominee of the

408 jawaharlal nehru

Sanatanists, those high priests at the shrine of the ancient
mysteries. Not finding this varied and diverting career ex*
hausting enough, he utilised his superfluous energy in criti-
cising Congress and condemning Gandhiji as reactionary. In
co-operation with a few others he started a Congress Democratic
Party, which incidentally had nothing to do with democracy,
and was connected with Congress only in so far as it attacked
that august body. Searching for fresh fields to conquer, he
then attended the Geneva Labour Conference as a Labour
delegate. One might almost think that he was qualifying for
the Prime Ministership of a ‘ National ’ Government after the
English fashion.

Few people can have had the advantage of such a varied out-
look and activities. And yet among the critics of the Congress
there were many who had experimented in various fields, and
who kept a finger in many a pie. A few of these called them-
selves socialists, and they gave a bad name to socialism.

LI

THE LIBERAL OUTLOOK

During my visit to Poona to see Gandhiji, I accompanied him
one evening to the Servants of India Society’s home. For an
hour or so questions were put to him on political matters by some
of the members of the Society, and he answered them. Mr.
Srinivasa Sastri, the President of the Society, was not there, nor
was Pandit Hriday Nath Kunzru, probably the ablest of the
other members, but some senior members were present. A few
of us who were present on the occasion listened with growing
amazement, for the questions related to the most trivial of
happenings. Mostly they dealt with Gandhiji’s old request for
an interview with the Viceroy and the Viceroy’s refusal. Was
this the only important subject they could think of in a world
full of problems, and when their own country was carrying on
a hard struggle for freedom and hundreds of organisations
were outlawed? There was the agrarian crisis and the industrial
depression causing widespread unemployment. There were the
dreadful happenings in Bengal and the Frontier and in other
parts of India, the suppression of freedom of thought and
speech and writing and assembly ; and so many other national
and international problems. But the questions were limited to
unimportant happenings, and the possible reactions of the
Viceroy and the Government of India to an approach by
Gandhiji.

I had a strong feeling as if I had entered a monastery, the
inhabitants of which had long been cut off from effective
contact with the outside world. And yet our friends were active
politicians, able men with long records of public service and
sacrifice. They formed, with a few others, the real backbone of
the Liberal Party. The rest of the Party was a vague, amor-
phous lot of people, who wanted occasionally to have the sen-
sation of being connected with political activities. Some of
these, especially in Bombay and Madras, were indistinguishable
from Government officials.

The questions that a country puts are a measure of that
country’s political development. Often the failure of that
country is due to the fact that it has not put the right question
to itself. Our wasting our time and energy and tempers over
the communal distribution of seats, or our forming parties on

409

410 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

the Communal Award and carrying on a sterile controversy
about it to the exclusion of vital problems, is a measure of our
political backwardness. In the same way the questions that
were put to Gandhiji that day in the Servants of India Society’s
home mirrored the strange mental state of that Society and of
the Liberal Party. They seemed to have no political or eco-
nomic principles, no wide outlook, and their politics seemed to
be of the parlour or court variety — what high officials would do
or would not do.

One is apt to be misled by the name ‘ Liberal Party The
word elsewhere, and especially in England, stood for a certain
economic policy— free trade and laisser-faire, etc.— and a cer-
tain ideology of individual freedom and civil liberties. The
English Liberal tradition was based on economic foundations.
The desire for freedom in trade and to be rid of the King’s
monopolies and arbitrary taxation, led to the desire for political
liberty. The Indian Liberals have no such background. They
do not believe in free trade, being almost all protectionists, and
they attach little importance to civil liberties as recent events
have shown. Their close contacts with and general support of
the semi-feudal and autocratic Indian States, where even the
beginnings of democracy and personal freedom are non-
existent, also distinguish them from the European type of
Liberal. Indeed the Indian Liberals are not liberal at all in
any sense of the word, or at most they are liberal only in spots
and patches. What they exactly are it is difficult to say, for
they have no firm positive basis of ideas, and, though small in
numbers, differ from one another. They are strong only in
negation. They see error everywhere and attempt to avoid it,
and hope that in doing so they will find the truth. Truth for
them indeed always lies between two extremes. By criticising
everything they consider extreme, they experience the feeling
of being virtuous and moderate and good. This method helps
them in avoiding painful and difficult processes of thought
and in having to put forward constructive ideas. Capitalism,
some of them vaguely feel, has not wholly succeeded in Europe,
and is in trouble; on the other hand socialism is obviously bad,
because it attacks vested interests. Probably some mystic solu-
tion will be found in the future, some half-way house, and
meanwhile vested interests should be protected. If there was
an argument as to whether the earth was fiat or round, prob-
ably they would condemn both these extreme views and suggest
tentatively that it might be square or elliptical.

Over trivial and unimportant matters they grow quite excited,

THE LIBERAL OUTLOOK

+ 11

and there is an amazing amount of houha and shouting.
Consciously and sub-consciously they avoid tackling funda-
mental issues, for such issues require fundamental remedies and
the courage of thought and action. Hence Liberal defeats and
victories are of little consequence. They relate to no principle.
The leading characteristic of the Party and the distinguishing
feature, if it can be considered so, is thus moderation in every-
thing, good or bad. It is an outlook on life and the old name—
the Moderates — was perhaps the most suitable.

" In moderation placing all my glory
While Tories call me Whig and Whigs a Tory.” 1

But moderation, however admirable it might be, is not a
bright and scintillating virtue. It produces dullness, and so the
Indian Liberals have unhappily become a 'Dull Brigade’ —
sombre and serious in their looks, dull in their writing and
conversation, and lacking in humour. Of course there are
exceptions, and the most notable of these is Sir Tej Bahadur
Sapru who, in his personal life, is certainly not dull or lacking
in humour and who enjoys even a joke against himself. But
on the whole the Liberal group represents bourgeoisdom in
excelsis with all its pedestrian solidity. The Leader of Alla-
habad, which is the leading Liberal newspaper, had a revealing
editorial note last year. It stated that great and unusual men
had always brought trouble to the world, and therefore it pre-
ferred the ordinary, mediocre kind of man. With a fine and
frank gesture it nailed its flag to mediocrity.

Moderation and conservatism and a desire to avoid risks and
sudden changes are often the inevitable accompaniments of old
age. They do not seem quite so appropriate in the young, but
ours is an ancient land, and sometimes its children seem to be
born tired and weary, with all the lack-lustre and marks of
age upon them. But even this old country is now convulsed by
the forces of change, and the moderate outlook is bewildered.
The old world is passing, and all the sweet reasonableness of
which the Liberals are capable does not make any difference;
they might as well argue with the hurricane o$ the flood or the
earthquake. Old assumptions fail them, and they dare not seek
for new ways of thought and action. Dr. A. N. Whitehead,
speaking of the European tradition, says : “ The whole of this
tradition is warped by the vicious assumption that each genera-
tion will substantially live amid the conditions governing the
lives of its fathers, and will transmit those conditions to mould
1 Alexander Pope.

412 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

with equal force the lives of its children. We are living in the
first period of human history for which the assumption is
false. Dr. Whitehead errs on the side of moderation in his
analysis, for probably that assumption has always been untrue.
If the European tradition has been conservative, how much
more so has ours been? But the mechanics of history pay little
attention to these traditions when the time for change comes.
We watch helplessly and blame others for the failure of our
plans. And that, as Mr. Gerald Heard points out, is the “ most
disastrous of illusions, the projection that convinces itself
that any failure in one’s plans must be due not to a mistake in
one’s own thinking, but to a deliberate thwarting by some one
else.”

All of us suffer from this terrible illusion. I sometimes think
that Gandhiji is not free from it. But we act at least and try
to keep in touch with life, and by trial and error sometimes
lessen the power of the illusion and stumble along. But the
Liberals suffer most. For they do not act for fear of acting
wrongly, they do not move for fear of falling, they keep away
from all healthy contacts with the masses, and sit enchanted
and self-hypnotised in their mental cells. Mr. Srinivasa Sastri
warned his fellow-Liberals a year and a half ago not to “ stand
by and let things pass.” That warning had greater truth in it
than he himself probably realised. Thinking always in terms
of what the Government did, he was referring to the constitu-
tional changes that were being hatched by various official com-
mittees. But the misfortune of the Liberals had been that they
stood by and let things pass when their own people were
marching ahead. They feared their own masses, and they pre-
ferred to alienate themselves from these masses rather than fall
out with our rulers. Was it any wonder that they became
strangers in their own land, and life went by and left them
standing? When fierce struggles were waged for life and free-
dom by their countrymen, there was no doubt on which side
of the barricade the Liberals stood. From the other side of that
barricade they gave us good advice, and were full of moral
platitudes, laying them on thick like sticky paint. Their co-
operation with the British Government in the round table
conferences and committees was a moral factor of value to the
Government. A denial of it would have made a difference. It
was remarkable that at one of these conferences even the
British Labour Party kept away; not so our Liberals, who
went in spite of an appeal by some Britishers to them not to
do so.

THE LIBERAL OUTLOOK

413

We are all moderates or extremists in varying degrees, and
for various objects. If we care enough for anything we are
likely to feel strongly about it, to be extremist about it. Other-
wise we can afford a gracious tolerance, a philosophical modera-
tion, which really hides to some extent our indifference. I have
known the mildest of Moderates to crow very aggressive and
extremist when a suggestion was made for the sweeping away
of certain vested interests in land. Our Liberal friends repre-
sent to some extent the prosperous and well-to-do. They can
afford to wait for Swaraj, and need not excite themselves about
it. But any proposal for radical social change disturbs them
greatly, and they are no longer moderate or sweetly reasonable
about it. Thus their moderation is really confined to their
attitude towards the British Government, and they nurse the
hope that if they are sufficiently respectful and compromising
perhaps, as a reward for this behaviour, they might be listened
to. Inevitably they have to accept the British view-point. Blue
books become their passionate study, Erskine May’s Parlia-
mentary Practice and such-like books their constant com-
panions, a new Government Report a matter for excitement
and speculation. Liberal leaders returning from England make
mysterious statements about the doings of the great ones in
Whitehall, for Whitehall is the Valhalla of Liberals, Respon-
sivists and other similar groups. In the old days it was said that
good Americans when they died went to Paris, and it may be
that the shades of good Liberals sometimes haunt the precincts
of Whitehall.

I write of Liberals, but what I write applies to many of us
also in the Congress. It applies even more to the Responsivists,
who have outdistanced the Liberals in their moderation. There
is a great deal of difference between the average Liberal and
the average Congressman, and yet the dividing line is not clear
and definite. Ideologically there is little to choose between the
advanced Liberal and the moderate Congressman. But, thanks
to Gandhiji, every Congressman has kept some touch with the
soil and the people of the country, and he has dabbled in
action, and because of this he has escaped sofne of the conse-
quences of a vague and defective ideology. Not so the Liberals :
they have lost touch with both the old and the new. As a
group they represent a vanishing species.

Most of us, I suppose, have lost the old pagan feeling and
not gained the new insight. Not for us to 41 have sight of
Proteus rising from the sea”; or "hear old Triton blow his
wreathed horn.” And very few of us are fortunate enough—

414 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

“ To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.”

Not for most of us, unhappily, to sense the mysterious life
of Nature, to hear her whisper close to our ears, to thrill and
quiver at her touch. Those days are gone. But though we may
not see the sublime in Nature as we used to, we have sought
to find it in the glory and tragedy of humanity, in its mighty
dreams and inner tempests, its pangs and failures, its conflicts
and misery, and, over all this, its faith in a great destiny and
a realisation of those dreams. That has been some recompense
for us for all the heart-breaks that such a search involves, and
often we have been raised above the pettiness of life. But many
have not undertaken this search, and having cut themselves
adrift from the ancient ways, find no road to follow in the
present. They neither dream nor do they act. They have no
understanding of human convulsions like the great French
Revolution or the Russian Revolution. The complex, swift and
cruel eruptions of human desires, long suppressed, frighten
them. For them the Bastille has not yet fallen.

It is often said with righteous indignation that “ Patriotism
is not a monopoly of Congressmen.” The same phrase is re-
peated again and again with a lack of originality which is some-
what distressing. I hope no Congressman has ever claimed a
comer in this emotion. Certainly I do not think it is a Con-
gress monopoly, and I would be glad to make a present of it to
any one who desired it. It is often enough the refuge of the
opportunist and the careerist, and there are so many varieties
of it to suit all tastes, all interests, all classes. If Judas had been
alive to-day he would no doubt act in its name. Patriotism is
no longer enough: we want something higher, wider and
nobler.

Nor is moderation enough by itself. Restraint is good and is
the measure of our culture, but behind that restraint there must
be something to restrain and hold back. It has been, and is,
man’s destiny to control the elements, to ride the thunderbolt,
to bring the raging fire and the rushing and tumbling waters
to his use, but most difficult of all for him has been to restrain
and hold in check the passions that consume him. So long as
he will not master them, he cannot enter folly into his human
heritage. But are. we to restrain the legs that move not and the
hands that are palsied?

THE LIBERAL OUTLOOK

4>5

I cannot resist the temptation to quote four lines of Roy
Campbell's, written on some South African novelists. They seem
to be equally applicable to various political groups in Inaia :

44 They praise the firm restraint with which you write.

I’m with you there, of course.

You use the snaffle and the curb all right.

But where’s the bloody horse? ”

Our Liberal friends tell us that they follow the narrow path
of the golden mean, and steer themselves between the extremes
of the Congress and the Government. They constitute them-
selves the judges of the failings of both, and congratulate them-
selves that they are free from either. They endeavour to hold
the scales and, like the figure of Justice, I suppose, they keep
their eyes closed or bandaged. Is it my fancy merely that takes
me back through the ages and makes me listen to that famous
cry : “ Scribes and Phansees. ... Ye blind guides, which strain
at a gnat and swallow a camel! ”

LII

DOMINION STATUS AND INDEPENDENCE

Most of those who have shaped Congress policy during the last
seventeen years have come from the middle classes. Liberal or
Congressmen, they have come from the same class and have
grown up in the same environment. Their social life and con-
tacts and friendships have been similar, and there was little
difference to begin with between the two varieties of bourgeois
ideals that they professed. Temperamental and psychological
differences began to separate them, and they began to look in
different directions — one group more towards the Government
and the rich, upper middle class, the other towards the lower
middle classes. The ideology still remained the same, the objec-
tives did not differ, but behind the second group there was now
the push of larger numbers from the market-place and the
humbler professions as well as the unemployed intelligentsia.
The tone changed; it was no longer respectful and polite, but
strident and aggressive. Lacking strength to act effectively, some
relief was found in strong language. Frightened by this new
development, the moderate elements dropped out and sought
safety in seclusion. Even so, the upper middle class was strongly
represented in the Congress, though in numbers the little
bourgeoisie was predominant. They were drawn not only by the
desire for success in their national struggle, but because they
sought an inner satisfaction in that struggle. They sought
thereby to recover their lost pride and self-respect, and to reha-
bilitate their shattered dignity. It was the usual nationalist
urge, and though this was common to all, it was here that the
temperamental differences between the moderate and the ex-
tremist became evident. Gradually the lower middle class began
to dominate the Congress, and later the peasantry made their
influence felt.

As the Congress became more and more the representa-
tive of the rural masses, the gulf that separated it from
the Liberals widened, and it became almost impossible for
the Liberal :o understand or appreciate the Congress view-point.
It is not b easy for the upper-class drawing-room to understand
the humble cottage or the mud hut. Yet, in spite of these
differences, both the ideologies were nationalist and bourgeois ;
the variation was one of degree, not of kind. In the Congress

DOMINION STATUS AND INDEPENDENCE 417

many people remained to the last who would have been quite at
home m the Liberal group.

For many generations the British treated India as a kind of
enormous country-house (after the old English fashion) that
they owned. They were the gentry owning the house and occu-
pying the desirable parts of it, while the Indians were consigned
to the servants’ hall and pantry and kitchen. As in every proper
country-house there was a fixed hierarchy in those lower regions
— butler, housekeeper, cook, valet, maid, footman, etc. — and
strict precedence was observed among them. But between the
upper and lower regions of the house there was, socially and
politically, an impassable barrier. The fact that the British
Government should have imposed this arrangement upon us
was not surprising; but what does seem surprising is that we,
or most of us, accepted it as the natural and inevitable ordering
of our lives and destiny. We developed the mentality of a good
country-house servant. Sometimes we were treated to a rare
honour — we were given a cup of tea in the drawing-room. The
height of our ambition was to become respectable and to be
promoted individually to the upper regions. Greater than any
victory of arms or diplomacy was this psychological triumph
of the British in India. The slave began to think as a slave, as
the wise men of old had said.

Times have changed, and the country-house type of civilisa-
tion is not accepted willingly now, either in England or India.
But still there remain people amongst us who desire to stick to
the servants’-halls and take pride in the gold braid and livery
of their service. Others, like the Liberals, accept that country-
house in its entirety, admire its architecture and the whole
edifice, but look forward to replacing the owners, one by one, by
themselves. They call this Indianisation. For them the problem
is one of changing the colour of the administration, or at most
having a new administration. They never think in terms of a
new State.

For them Swaraj means that everything continues as
before, only with a darker shade. They can only conceive of a
future in which they, or people like them, will play the principal
role and take the place of the English high officials; in which
there are the same types of services, government departments,
legislatures, trade, industry— with the I.C.S. at their jobs; the
princes in their palaces, occasionally appearing in fancy dress
or carnival attire with all their jewels glittering to impress their
subjects; the landlords claiming special protection, and mean-
while harassing their tenants; the money-lender, with his

418 jawaharlal nehru

money-bags, harassing both zamindar and tenant; the lawyer
with his fees; and God in His heaven.

Essentially their outlook is based on the maintenance of the
status quo, and the changes they desire can almost be termed
personal changes. And they seek to achieve these changes by a
slow infiltration with the goodwill of the British. The whole
foundation of their politics and economics rests on the continu-
ance and stability of the British Empire. Looking on this
Empire as unshakable, at least for a considerable time, they adapt
themselves to it, and accept not only its political and economic
ideology but also, to a large extent, its moral standards, which
have all been framed to secure the continuance of British
dominance.

The Congress attitude differs fundamentally from this because
it seeks a new State and not just a different administration.
What that new State is going to be may not be quite clear to
the average Congressman, and opinions may differ about it. But
it is common ground in the Congress (except perhaps for a
moderate / ':inge) that present conditions and methods cannot
and must not continue, and basic changes are essential. Herein
lies the difference between Dominion Status and Independence.
The former envisages the same old structure, with many bonds
visible and invisible tying us to the British economic system;
the latter gives us, or ought to give us, freedom to erect a new
structure to suit our circumstances.

It is not a question of an implacable and irreconcilable anta-
gonism to England and the English people, or the desire to
break from them at all costs. It would be natural enough if
there was bad blood between India and England after what has
happened. “The clumsiness of power spoils the key and uses
the pick-axe,” says Tagore, and the key to our hearts was
destroyed long ago, and the abundant use of the pick-axe on us
has not made us partial to the British. But if we claim to serve
the larger cause of India and humanity we cannot afford to be
carried away by our momentary passions. And even if we were
so inclined the hard training which Gandhiji has given us for
the last fifteen years would prevent us. I write this sitting in a
British prison, and for months past my mind has been full of
anxiety, and I have perhaps suffered more during this solitary
imprisonment than I have done in gaol before. Anger and
resentment have often filled my min ., at various happenings,
and yet as I sit here, and look deep into my mind and heart, I
do not find any.anger against England or the English people. I
dislike British imperialism and I resent its imposition on India;

DOMINION STATUS AND INDEPENDENCE 419

I dislike the capitalist system; I dislike exceedingly and resent
the way India is exploited by the ruling classes of Britain. But
I do not hold England or the English people as a whole respon-
sible for this, and even if I did, I do not think it would make
much difference, for it is a little foolish to lose one’s temper at
or to condemn a whole people. They are as much the victims
of circumstances as we are.

Personally, I owe too much to England in my mental make-
up ever to feel wholly alien to her. And, do what I will, I can-
not get rid of the habits of mind, and the standards and ways
of judging other countries as well as life generally, which I
acquired at school and college in England. All my predilections
(apart from the political plane) are in favour of England and
the English people, and if I have become what is called an un-
compromising opponent of British rule in India, it is almost in
spite of myself.

It is that rule, that domination, to which we object, and with
which we cannot compromise willingly— not the English people.
Let us by all means have the closest contacts with the English
and other foreign peoples. We want fresh air in India, fresh
and vital ideas, healthy co-operation; we have grown too
musty with age. But if the English come in the rdle of a
tiger they can expect no friendship or co-operation. To the tiger
of imperialism there will only be the fiercest opposition, and
to-day our country has to deal with that ferocious animal. It
may be possible to tame the wild tiger of the forest and to
charm away his native ferocity, but there is no such possibility
of taming capitalism and imperialism when they combine and
swoop down on an unhappy land.

For any one to say that he or his country will not compromise
is, in a sense, a foolish remark, for life is always forcing us to
compromise. When applied to another country or people, it is
completely foolish. But there is truth in it when it is applied to
a system or a particular set of circumstances, and then it be-
comes something beyond human power to accomplish. Indian
freedom and British imperialism are two incompatibles, and
neither martial law nor all the sugar-coating in the world
can make them compatible or bring them together. Only
with the elimination of British imperialism from India will
conditions be created which permit of real Indo-British co-
operation.

We are told that independence is a narrow creed in the
modern world, which is increasingly becoming inter-dependent,
and therefore in demanding independence we are trying to put

400

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

the dock back* Liberals and pacifists and even so-called social-
ists in Britain advance this plea and chide us for our narrow
nationalism, and incidentally suggest to us that the way to a
fuller national life is througn the “ British Commonwealth of
Nations." It is curious how all roads in England— -liberalism,
pacifism, socialism, etc. — lead to the maintenance of the
Empire. "The desire of a ruling nation to maintain the status
quo” says Trotsky, “ frequently dresses up as a superiority to
'nationalism ', just as the desire of a victorious nation to hang
on to its booty easily takes the form of pacifism. Thus Mac-
Donald, in the face of Gandhi, feels as though he were an inter-
nationalist."

I do not know what India will be like or what she will do
when she is politically free. But I do know that those of her
people who stand for national independence to-day stand also
for the widest internationalism. For a socialist, nationalism can

have no meaning, but even many of the non-socialists in the
advanced ranks of the Congress are confirmed internationalists.
If we claim independence to-day it is with no desire for isola-
tion. On the contrary, we are perfectly willing to surrender part
of that independence, in common with other countries, to a real
international order. Any imperial system, by whatever high-
sounding name it may be called, is an enemy of such an order,
and it is not through such a system that world co-operation or
world peace can be reached.

Recent developments have shown all over the world how the
various imperialist systems are isolating themselves more and
more by autarchy and economic imperialism. Instead of the
growth of internationalism we see a reversal of the process. The
reasons for this are not difficult to discover, and they indicate
the growing weakness of the present economic order. One of
the results of this policy is that while it produces greater co-
operation within the area of autarchy, it also means isolation
from the rest of the world. For India, as we have seen by
Ottawa and other decisions, it has meant a progressive lessening
of our ties and contacts with other countries. We have become,
even more than we were, the hangers-on of British industry;
and the dangers of this policy, apart from the immediate harm
it has done in various ways, are obvious. Thus Dominion
Status seems to lead to isolation and not to wider international
contacts. *

Our friends the Indian Liberals, however, have an amazing
JcjOAck of seeing the world, and more particularly their own
gtyHOtiy, through British spectacles of true-blue colour. With-

DOMINION STATUS AND INDEPENDENCE 421

out trying to appreciate what the Congress says and why it says
so, they repeat the old British argument of independence being
narrower and less soul-lifting than Dominion Status. Inter-
nationalism means for them Whitehall, for they am singularly
ignorant of other countries, partly because of the language
difficulty, but even more so because they are quite content to
ignore them. They are, of course, averse to direct action or
any kind of aggressive politics in India. But it is curious
to note that some of their leaders have no objection to such
methods being adopted in other countries. Tney can appre-
ciate and admire them from a distance, and some of the
present-day dictators of Western countries receive their mental
homage.

Names are apt to mislead, but the real question before us in
India is whether we are aiming at a new State or merely at a
new administration. The Liberal answer is clear; they want the
latter, and nothing more, and even that is a distant and progres-
sive ideal. The words * Dominion Status ’ are mentioned from
time to time, but their real objective for the time being is ex-
pressed in those mystic words “responsibility at the centre”.
Not for them the full-blooded words: Power, Independence,
Freedom, Liberty; they sound dangerous. The lawyer's lan-
guage and approach appeals to them far more, even though it
may not enthuse the multitude. History has innumerable in-
stances of individuals and groups facing perils and risking their
lives for the sake of faith and freedom. It seems doubtful if
any one will ever deliberately give up a meal or sleep less
soundly for “responsibility at the centre” or any other legal
phrase.

This, then, is their objective, and this is to be reached not by
4 direct action ' or any other form of aggressive action but, as
Mr. Srinivasa Sastri put it, by a display of “wisdom, experi-
ence, moderation, power of persuasion, quiet influence and real
efficiency.” It is hoped that by our good behaviour and our
good work we shall ultimately induce our rulers to part with
power. In other words, they resist us to-day because either they
are irritated against us on account of our aggressive attitude, or
they doubt our capacity, or both. This seems a rather naive
analysis of imperialism and the present situation. That brilliant
English writer, Professor R. H. Tawney, has written an appro-
priate and arresting passage dealing with the notion of gaining
power in stages and with the co-operation of the ruling classes.
He refers to the British Labour Party, but his words are even
more applicable to India, for in England they have at least

422 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

democratic institutions, where the will of the majority can, in
theory, make itself felt. Professor Tawney writes:

14 Onions can be eaten leaf by leaf, but you cannot skin a live
tiger paw by paw; vivisection is its trade, and it does the skin-
ning first. . . .

44 If there is any country where the privileged classes are
simpletons, it is certainly not England. The idea that tact and
amiability in presenting the Labour Party's case can hoodwink
them into the belief that it is their case also, is as hopeless as
an attempt to bluff a sharp solicitor out of a property of which
he holds the title-deeds. The plutocracy consists of agreeable,
astute, forcible, self-confident, and, when hard pressed, unscru-
pulous people, who know pretty well on which side their bread
is buttered, and intend that the supply of butter shall not run
short. ... If their position is seriously threatened, they will use
every piece on the board, political and economic — the House of
Lords, the Crown, the Press, disaffection in the Army, financial
crisis, international difficulties, and even, as newspaper attacks
on the pound in 1931 showed, the emigre trick of injuring one's
country to protect one's pocket."

The British Labour Party is a powerful organisation. It is
backed by the Trade Unions, with their millions of paying
members, and a highly developed co-operative organisation, as
well as many members and sympathisers among the professional
classes. Britain has democratic parliamentary institutions based
on adult suffrage, and a long tradition of civil liberty. In spite
of all this, Mr. Tawney is of opinion — and recent events have
confirmed the soundness of this — that the Labour Party cannot
hope to gain real power merely by smiling and persuasion, use-
ful and desirable as both these approaches are. Mr. Tawney
suggests that even if the Labour Party obtained a majority in
the House of Commons, it would still be powerless to make any
radical change in face of the opposition of the privileged
classes, who hold so many political, social, economic, financial
and military citadels. In India, it need hardly be pointed out,
conditions are very different. There are no democratic institu-
tions or traditions. We have instead a well-established practice
of ordinance and dictatorial rule and the suppression of the
liberties of the person, of speech, writing, assembly and the
Press. Nor have the Liberals any strong organisation behind
them. They have thus to rely on their smile alone.

Liberals are strongly opposed to any activity that is 4 uncon-
stitutional ' or 4 illegal \ In countries with democratic constitu-
tions the word 4 constitutional* has a wide significance. It

DOMINION STATUS AND INDEPENDENCE

4*3

controls the making of laws, it protects liberties, it checks the
executive, it provides for the democratic methods of bringing
about changes in the political and economic structure. But in
India there is no such constitution and the word can mean no
such thing . 1 * * To use it here is merely to introduce an idea which
has no place in the India of to-day. The word ' constitutional ’
is often used here, strange to say, in support of the executive’s
more or less arbitrary actions. Or else it is used in the sense of
* legal It is far better to confine ourselves to the words 4 legal ’
or 4 illegal \ though they are vague enough and vary from day
to day.

A new ordinance or a new law creates new offences. To
attend a public meeting may be an offence; so also to ride a
bicycle, to wear certain clothes, not to be home by sunset, not
to report oneself to the police daily-all these and numerous
other acts are offences to-day in some part of India. A certain
act may be an offence in one part of the country and not in
another. When these laws can be promulgated by an irrespon-
sible executive at the shortest notice, the word 4 legal ’ simply
means the will of that executive and nothing more. Ordinarily
that will is obeyed, willingly or sullenly, because the conse-
quences of disobedience are unpleasant. But for any one to say
that he will always obey it means abject submission to a dic-
tatorship or irresponsible authority, the surrender of his con-
science, and the impossibility of ever gaining freedom, so far as
his activities are concerned.

In every democratic country to-day there is an argument
going on as to whether radical economic changes can be
brought about in the ordinary course through the constitu-
tional machinery at their disposal. Many people are of opinion
that this cannot be done, and some unusual and revolutionary
method will have to be adopted. For our purpose in India the
issue of this argument is immaterial, for we have no constitu-
tional means of bringing about the changes we desire. If the
White Paper or something like it is enacted, constitutional
progress in many directions will be stopped completely. There
is no way out except by revolution or illegal action. What

1 Mr. C. Y. Chintamani, the eminent Liberal leader and editor-

in-chief of the Leader newspaper, has himself laid stress on the lack

of any kind of constitutional government in India, in his criticism

in the U.P. Council, of the Report of the Parliamentary Joint Select
Committee on India: “ Better submit to the present unconstitu-
tional government rather than to the more reactionary and further
more unconstitutional government of the future.”

424 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

then is one to do? Give up all idea of change and resign
oneself to fate?

The position to-day in India is even more extraordinary. The
Executive can and does prevent or restrict all manner of public
activities. Any activity that is, in its opinion, dangerous for it
i9 prohibited. Thus all effective public activity can be stopped,
as it was stopped during the last three years. Submission to
this means giving up all public work, that is an impossible
position to take up.

No one can say that he will always and without fail act
legally. Even in a democratic state occasions may arise when
one’s conscience compels one to act otherwise. In a despotically
or arbitrarily governed country these occasions are bound to
be more frequent; indeed, in such a state the law loses all moral
justification.

“Direct action is allied to dictatorship and not democracy,
and those who wish to bring about the triumph of democracy
must eschew direct action,” say the Liberals. This is confused
thinking and loose writing. Sometimes direct action — e.g. a
workers’ strike — may even be legal. But probably political
action was meant. In Germany to-day under Hitler what kind
of action is possible? Either abject submission or illegal and
revolutionary action. How could democracy be served there?

Indian Liberals often refer to democracy, but most of them
have no desire to go near it. Sir P. S. Sivaswamy Iyer, one of
the most prominent of Liberal leaders, said in May 1934: “In
advocating the convention of a constituent assembly, the Con-
gress places too much faith in the wisdom of the multitude,
and does too little justice to the sincerity and ability of men
who have taken part in various Round Table Conferences. I
very much doubt whether the constituent assembly would have
done better.” Sir Sivaswamy’s idea of democracy is thus some-
thing apart from the 1 multitude \ and fits in more with a
collection of * sincere and able ’ men nominated by the British
Government. Further, he blesses the White Paper, for though
“ not fully satisfied ” with it, “ he thought it would be unwise
for the country to oppose it wholesale . There appears to be
no reason whatever why there should not be the most perfect
co-operation between tne British Government and Sir P. S.
Sivaswamy tyer.

The withdrawal of civil disobedience by the Congress was
naturally welcomed by the Liberals. It was also not surprising
that they should take credit for their wisdom in having kept
aloof from this “ foolish and ill-advised movement “ Did we

DOMINION STATUS AND INDEPENDENCE 415

not say so? ” they told us. It was a strange argument. Because
when we stood up and put up a good fight we were knocked
down; therefore, the moral pointed out was that standing up is
a bad thing. Crawling is best and safest. It is quite impossible
to be knocked down or to fall from that horizontal position.

LIII

INDIA OLD AND NEW

It was natural and inevitable that Indian nationalism should
resent alien rule. And yet it was curious how large numbers of
our intelligentsia, to the end of the nineteenth century, ac-
cepted, consciously or unconsciously, the British ideology of
empire. They built their own arguments on this, and only
ventured to criticise some of its outward manifestations. The
history and economics and other subjects that were taught in
the schools arid colleges were written entirely from the British
imperial view-point, and laid stress on our numerous failings
in the past and present and the virtues and high destiny of the
British. We accepted to some extent this distorted version, and
even when we resisted it instinctively we were influenced by it.
At first there was no intellectual escape from it for we knew no
other facts or arguments, and so we sought relief in religious
nationalism, in the thought that at least in the sphere of re-
ligion and philosophy we were second to no other people. We
comforted ourselves in our misfortune and degradation with
the notion that though we did not possess the outward show
and glitter of the West we had the real inner article, which
was far more valuable and worth having. Vivekananda and
others, as well as the interest of Western scholars in our old
philosophies, gave us a measure of self-respect again and
roused up our dormant pride in our past.

Gradually we began to suspect and examine critically British
statements about our past and present conditions, but still we
thought and worked within the framework of British ideology.
If a thing was bad, it would be called ‘ un-British if a
Britisher in India misbehaved, the fault was his, not that of
the system. But the collection of this critical material of
British rule in India, in spite of the moderate outlook of the
authors, served a revolutionary purpose and gave a political and
economic foundation to our nationalism. Dadabhai Naoroji’s
Poverty and Un-British Rule in India, and books by Romesh
Dutt and William Digby and others, thus played a revolu-
tionary r 61 e in the development of our nationalist thought.
Further researches in ancient Indian history revealed brilliant
and highly civilised periods in the remote past, and we read of
these with great satisfaction. We also discovered that the

426

INDIA OLD AND NEW 427

British record in India was very different from what we had
been led to believe from their history books.

Our challenge to the British version of history, economics,
and administration in India grew, and yet we continued to
function within the orbit of their ideology. That was the
position of Indian nationalism as a whole at the turn of the
century. That is still the position of the Liberal group and
other small groups as well as a number of moderate Congress-
men, who go forward emotionally from time to time, but
intellectually still live in the nineteenth century. Because of
that the Liberal is unable to grasp the idea of Indian freedom,
for the two are fundamentally irreconcilable. He imagines that
step by step he will go up to higher offices and will deal with
fatter and more important files. The machinery of govern-
ment will go on smoothly as before, only he will be at the
hub, and somewhere in the background, without intruding
themselves too much, will be the British Army to give him
protection in case of need. That is his idea of Dominion Status
within the Empire. It is a naive notion impossible of achieve-
ment, for the price of British protection is Indian subjection.
We cannot have it both ways, even if that was not degrading
to the self-respect of a great country. Sir Frederick Whyte (no
partisan of Indian nationalism) says in a recent book: 1 "He
(the Indian) still believes that England will stand between him
and disaster, and as long as he cherishes this delusion he can-
not even lay the foundation of his own ideal of self-govern-
ment.” Evidently he refers to the Liberal or the reactionary
and communal types of Indians, largely with whom he must
have come into contact when he was President of the Indian
Legislative Assembly. This is not the Congress belief, much
less is it that of other advanced groups. They agree with
Sir Frederick, however, that there can be no freedom till this
delusion goes and India is left to free disaster, if that is her
fate, by herself. The complete withdrawal of British military
control of India will be the beginning of Indian freedom.

It is not surprising that the Indian intelligentsia in the nine-
teenth century should have succumbed . to British ideology;
what is surprising is that some people should continue to suffer
that delusion even after the stifling events and changes of the
twentieth century. In the nineteenth century the British ruling
classes were the aristocrats of the world, with a long record
of wealth and success and power behind them. This long
record and training gave them some of the virtues as well as
1 Sir Frederick Whyte: The Future of East and West.

428 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

failings of aristocracy* We in India can comfort ourselves with
the thought that we helped substantially during the last cen-
tury and three-quarters in providing the wherewithal and the
training for this superior state. They began to think themselves
— as so many races and nations have done — the chosen of
God and their Empire as an earthly Kingdom of Heaven, if
their special position was acknowledged and their superiority
not challenged, they were gracious and obliging, provided that
this did them no harm. But opposition to them became opposi-
tion to the divine order, and as such was a deadly sin which
must be suppressed.

M. Andre Siegfried has an interesting passage dealing with
this aspect of British psychology . 1

“ Par Vhabitude hireaitaire du pouvoir joint d la richesse, il
a fini par contracter une maniere d'etre, aristocratique, curieuse*
ment imbue de droit divin ethnique et qui mime a contirmi
de s > accentuer quand dejd la suprematie britannique Hait
contestie. Les jeunes ginirations de la fin du siecle . . . elles
en arrivent a se dire, inconsciemment , que ce succes leur est
dd. . . .

“ Cette facon d’interpriter les chose s est interessante d
souligner, parce qu’elle iclaire, dans ce defili particulibrement
dilicat, les reactions de la psychologie britannique . On riaura
pas manque de le, remarquer, c 9 est dans des causes exteridures
que V Angle terre croit trouver la source de ces difficultis:
toujours, pour commencer, c*est la faute de quelqu y un, et si ce,
quelqu f un veut bien se ri former, PAngleterre alors pourra
retrouver sa prosperiti . . . toujours cet instinct de vouloir
changer les autres au lieu de se changer soi-mime ! ”

If this was the general British attitude to the rest of the
world, it was most conspicuous in India. There was something
fascinating about the British approach to the Indian problem,
even though it was singularly irritating. The calm assurance
of always being in the right and of having borne a great
burden worthily, faith in their racial destiny and their own
brand of imperialism, contempt and anger at the unbelievers
and sinners who challenged the foundations of the true faith —
there was something of the religious temper about this attitude.
Like the Inquisitors of old, they were bent on saving us re-

f ardlcss of our desires in the matter. Incidentally they profited
y this traffic in virtue, thus demonstrating the truth of the
old proverb: "Honesty is the best policy”. The progress of
India became synonymous with the adaptation of the country
1 In La Crise Britannique au XX • Sibcle.

INDIA OLD AND NEW 429

to the imperial- scheme and the fashioning of chosen Indiana
after the British mould. The more we accepted British ideals
and objectives the fitter we were for ‘self-government’. Free-
dom would be ours as soon as we demonstrated and guaranteed
that we would use it only in accordance with British wishes.

Indians and Englishmen are, I am afraid, likely to disagree
about the record of British rule in India. That is perhaps
natural, but it does come as a shock when high British officials,
including Secretaries of State for India, draw fanciful pictures
of Indians past and present and make statements which have
no basis in fact. It is quite extraordinary how ignorant English
people, apart from some experts and others, are about India. If
facts elude them, how much more is the spirit of India beyond
their reach? They seized her body and possessed her, but it
was the possession of violence. They did not know her or try
to know her. They never looked into her eyes, for theirs were
averted and hers downcast through shame and humiliation.
After centuries of contact they face each other, strangers still,
full of dislike for each other.

And yet India with all her poverty and degradation had
enough of nobility and greatness about her, and though she
was overburdened with ancient tradition and present misery,
and her eyelids were a little weary, she had “ a beauty wrought
out from within upon the flesh, the deposit little cell by
cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite
passions ”. Behind and within her battered body one could still
glimpse a majesty of soul. Through long ago she had travelled
and gathered much wisdom on the way, and trafficked with
strangers and added them to her own big family, and witnessed
days of glory and of decay, and suffered humiliation and ter-
rible sorrow, and seen many a strange sight; but throughout her
long journey she had clung to her immemorial culture, drawn
strength and vitality from it, and shared it with other lands.
Like a pendulum she had swung up and down; she had ven-
tured with the daring of her thought to’ reach up to the
heavens and unravel their mystery, and she had also had bitter
experience of the pit of hell. Despite the woeful accumulations
of superstition and degrading custom that had clung to her
and borne her down, she had never wholly forgotten the in-
spiration that some of the wisest of her children, at the dawn
. of "history, had given her in the Upanishads. Their keen minds,
ever restless and ever striving and exploring, had not sought
refuge in blind dogma or grown complacent in the routine
observance of dead forms or ritual and creed. They had de-

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

manded not a personal relief from suffering in the present or
a place in a paradise to come, but light and understanding:
“ Lead me from the unreal to the real, lead me from darkness
to light, lead me from death to immortality .” 1 In the most
famous of the prayers recited daily even to-day by millions, the
gayatri mantra, the call is for knowledge, for enlightenment.

Though often broken up politically her spirit always guarded
a common heritage, and in her diversity there was ever an
amazing unity.* Like all ancient lands she was a curious mix-
ture of the good and bad, but the good was hidden and had
to be sought after, while the odour of decay was evident and
her hot, pitiless sun gave full publicity to the bad.

There is some similarity between Italy and India. Both are
ancient countries with long traditions of culture behind them,
though Italy is a newcomer compared to India, and India is
a much vaster country. Both are split up politically, and yet
the conception of Italia, like that of India, never died, and
in all their diversity the unity was predominant. In Italy the
unity was largely a Roman unity, for that great city had
dominated the country and been the fount and symbol of
unity. In India there was no such single centre or dominant
city, although Benares might well be called the Eternal City
of the East, not only for India but also for Eastern Asia. But,
unlike Rome, Benares never dabbled in empire or thought of
temporal power. Indian culture was so widespread all over
India that no part of the country could be called the heart of
that culture. From Cape Comorin to Amaranath and Badrinath
in the Himalayas, from Dwarka to Puri, the same ideas coursed,
and if there was a clash of ideas in one place, the noise of it
soon reached distant parts of the country.

Just as Italy gave the gift of culture and religion to Western
Europe, India dio so to Eastern Asia, though China was as old
and venerable as India. And even when Italy was lying pros-
trate, politically, her life coursed through the veins of Europe.

It was Mettemich who called Italy a "geographical ex-
pression”, and many a would-be Mettemich has used that

1 Brihadaranyak U pant shad, i, 3, 37.

* “ The greatest of all the contradictions in India is that over
this diversity is spread a greater unity, which is not immediately
evident because it failed historically to find expression in any
political cohesion to make the country one, but which is so great
a reality, and so powerful, that even the Musulman world of India
has to confess that it has been deeply affected by coming within
its influence.” Sir Frederick Whyte: The Future of East and West.

INDIA OLD AND NEW

43 '

phrase for India, and, strangely enough, there is a similarity
even in their geographical positions in the two continents.
More ihteresting is the comparison of England with Austria,
for has not England of the twentieth century been compared
to Austria of the nineteenth, proud and haughty and imposing
still, but with the roots that gave strength shrivelling up and
decay eating its way into the mighty fabric.

It is curious how one cannot resist the tendency to give an
anthropomorphic form to a country. Such is the force of habit
and early associations. India becomes Bharat Mata, Mother
India, a beautiful lady, very old but ever youthful in appear-
ance, sad-eyed and forlorn, cruelly treated by aliens and out-
siders, and calling upon her children to protect her. Some such
picture rouses the emotions of hundreds of thousands and
drives them to action and sacrifice. And yet India is in the
main the peasant and the worker, not beautiful to look at, for
poverty is not beautiful. Does the beautiful lady of our
imaginations represent the bare-bodied and bent workers in
the fields and factories? Or the small group of those who have
from ages past crushed the masses and exploited them, imposed
cruel customs on them and made many of them even untouch-
able? We seek to cover truth by the creatures of our imagina-
tions and endeavour to escape from reality to a world of
dreams.

And yet despite these different classes and their mutual con-
flicts there was a common bond which united them in India,
and one is amazed at its persistence and tenacity and enduring
vitality. What was this strength due to? Not merely the
passive strength and weight of inertia and tradition, great as
these always are. There was an active sustaining principle, for
it resisted successfully powerful outside influences and absorbed
internal forces that rose to combat it. And yet with all its
strength it could not preserve political freedom or endeavour
to bring about political unity. These latter do not appear to
have been considered worth much trouble;, their importance
was very foolishly ignored, and we have suffered for this neglect.
Right through history the old Indian ideal did not glorify
political and military triumph, and it looked down upon money
and the professional money-making class. Honour and wealth
did not go together, and honour was meant to go, at least in
theory, to the men who served the community with little in the
shape of financial reward.

The old culture managed to live through many a fierce storm
and tempest, but though it kept its outer form, it lost its real

43* JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

content. To-day it is fighting silently and desperately against
a new and all-powerful opponent— the bania civilisation of the
capitalist West. It will succumb to this newcomer, for the West
brings science, and science brings food for the hungry millions.
But the West also brings an antidote to the evils of this cut-
throat civilisation— the principles of socialism, of co-operation,
and service to the community for the common good. This is
not so unlike the old Brahman ideal of service, but it means
the brahmanisation (not in the religious sense, of course) of all
classes and groups and the abolition of class distinctions. It
may be that when India puts on her new garment, as she must,
for the old is tom and tattered, she will have it cut in this
fashion, so as to make it conform both to present conditions
and her old thought. The ideas she adopts must become racy to
her soil.

LIV

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE

What has been the record of British rule in India? I doubt if
it is possible for any Indian or Englishman to take an objective
and dispassionate view of this long record. And even if this
were possible, it would be still more difficult to weigh and
measure the psychological and other immaterial factors. We
are told that British rule “ has given to India that which
throughout the centuries she never possessed, a government
whose authority is unquestioned in any part of the sub-con-
tinent it has established the rule of law and a just and
efficient administration; it has brought to India Western con-
ceptions of parliamentary government and personal liberties;
and “ by transforming British India into a single unitary state
it has engendered amongst Indians a sense of political unity ”
and thus fostered the first beginnings of nationalism. 1 That
is the British case, and there is much truth in it, though the
rule of law and personal liberties have not been evident for
many years.

The Indian survey of this period lays stress on many other
factors, and points out the injury, material and spiritual, that
foreign rule has brought us. The view-point is so different that
sometimes the very thing that is commended by the British is
condemned by Indians. As Doctor Ananda Cootnaraswamy
writes : “ One of the most remarkable features of British rule
in India is that the greatest injuries inflicted upon the Indian
people have the outward appearance of blessings.”

As a matter of fact the changes that have taken place in
India during the last century or more have been world changes
common to most countries in the East and West. The growth
of industrialism in Western Europe, and later on in the rest of
the world, brought nationalism and the strong unitary state in
its train everywhere. The British can take credit for having first
opened India’s window to the West and brought her one aspect
of Western industrialism and science. But having done so they
throttled the further industrial growth of the country till
circumstances forced their hands. India was already the meet-
ing-place of two cultures, the western Asiatic culture of Islam

1 The quotations are from the Report of the Joint Parliamentary
Committee on Indian Constitutional Reform (1934).

• 433

434 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and the eastern, her own product, which spread to the Far East
And now a third and more powerful impulse came from further
west, and India became a focal point and a battle-ground for
various old and new ideas. There can be no doubt that this
third impulse would have triumphed and thus solved many of
India's old problems,' but the British, who had themselves
helped in bringing it, tried to stop its further progress. They
prevented our industrial growth, and thus delayed our political
growth, and preserved all the out-of-date feudal and other relics
they could find in the country. They even froze up our
changing and to some extent progressing laws and customs at
the stage they found them, and made it difficult for us to
get out of their shackles. It was not with their goodwill or
assistance that the bourgeoisie grew in India. But after intro-
ducing the railway and other products of industrialism they
could not stop the wheel of change; they could only check it
and slow it down, and this they did to their own manifest ad-
vantage.

“On this solid foundation the majestic structure of the
Government of India rests, and it can be claimed with certainty
that in the period which has elapsed since 1 838 when the Crown
assumed supremacy over all the territories of the East India
Company, the educational and material progress of India has
been greater than it was ever within her power to achieve during
any other period of her long and chequered history.” 1 This
statement is not so self-evident as it appears to be, and it has
often been stated that literacy actually went down with the
coming of British rule. But even if the statement was wholly
true, it amounts to a comparison of the modem industrial age
with past ages. In almost every country in the world the educa-
tional and material progress has been tremendous during the

E ast century because of science and industrialism, and it may
e said with assurance of any such country that progress of
this kind “has been greater than was ever within her power
to achieve during any other period of her long and chequered
history ’—though perhaps that country’s history may not be
a long one in comparison with Indian history. Are we need-
lessly cantankerous and perverse if we suggest that some such
technical progress would have come to us anyhow in this in-
dustrial age, and even without British rule? And, indeed, if we
conapare our lot with many other countries, may we not hazard
the guess that such progress might have been greater, for we have
had to contend agamst a stifling of that progress by the British
1 Report of the Joint Parliamentary Committee (1934).

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE 435

themselves? Railways, telegraphs, telephones, wireless and the
like are hardly tests of the goodness or beneficence of British
rule. They were welcome and necessary, and because the British
happened to be the agents who brought them first, we should
be grateful to them. But even these heralds of industrialism
came to us primarily for the strengthening of British rule.
They were tne veins and arteries through which the nation’s
blood should have coursed, increasing its trade, carrying its
produce, and bringing new life and wealth to its millions. It is
true that in the long-run some such result was likely, but they
were designed and worked for another purpose — to strengthen
the imperial hold and to capture markets for British goods —
which they succeeded in achieving. I am all in favour of
industrialisation and the latest methods of transport, but
sometimes, as I rushed across the Indian plains, the railway,
that life-giver, has almost seemed to me like iron bands con-
fining and imprisoning India.

The British conception of ruling India was the police con-
ception of the State. Government’s job was to protect the State
and leave the rest to others. Their public finance dealt with
military expenditure, police, civil administration, interest on
debt. The economic needs of the citizens were not looked after,
and were sacrificed to British interests. The cultural and other
needs of the people, except for a tiny handful, were entirely
neglected. The changing conceptions of , public finance which
brought free and universal education, improvement of public
health, care of poor and feeble-minded, insurance of workers
against illness, old age and unemployment, etc., in other
countries, were almost entirely beyond tne ken of the Govern-
ment. It could not indulge in these spending activities for its
tax system was most regressive, taking a much larger pro-
portion of small incomes than of the larger ones, ana its ex-
penditure on its protective and administrative functions was
terribly heavy and swallowed up most of the revenue.

The outstanding feature of British rule was their concen-
tration on everything that went to strengthen their political and
economic hold on the country. Everything else was incidental.
If they built up a powerful central government and an efficient
police force, that was an achievement for which they can take
credit, but the Indian people can hardly congratulate themselves
on it. Unity is a good thing, but unity in subjection is hardly
a thing to be proud of. The very strength of a despotic govern-
ment may become a greater burden for a people; and a police
force, no doubt useful in many ways, can be, and has been often

436 jawaharlal nehru

enough, turned against the very people it is supposed to pro-
tect. Bertrand Russell, comparing modern civilisation with the
old Greek, has recently written : “ The only serious superiority
of Greek civilisation as compared to ours was the inefficiency
of the police, which enabled a larger proportion of decent
people to escape.”

Britain’s supremacy in India brought us peace, and India was
certainly in need of peace after the troubles and misfortunes
that followed the break-up of the Moghal empire. Peace is a
precious commodity, necessary for any progress, and it was
welcome to us when it came. But even peace can be purchased
at too great a price, and we can have the perfect peace of the
grave, and the absolute safety of a cage or of prison. Or peace
may be the sodden despair of men unable to better themselves.
The peace which is imposed by an alien conqueror has hardly
the restful and soothing qualities of the real article. War is
a terrible thing and to be avoided, but it does encourage some
virtues, which, according to William James, the psychologist,
are: fidelity, cohesiveness, tenacity, heroism, conscience, edu-
cation, inventiveness, economy, and physical health and vigour.
Because of this, James sought for a moral equivalent of war
which, without the horrors of war, would encourage these
virtues in a community. Perhaps if he had learnt of non-
co-operation and civil disobedience he would have found some-
thing after his own heart, a moral and peaceful equivalent of
war.

It is a futile task to consider the ‘ifs’ and possibilities of
history. I feel sure that it was a good thing for India to come
in contact with the scientific and industrial West. Science was
the great gift of the West, and India lacked this, and without
it she was doomed to decay. The manner of our contacts was
unfortunate, and yet, perhaps, only a succession of violent
shocks could shake ns out of our torpor. From this point of
view the Protestant, individualistic, Anglo-Saxon English were
suitable, fot they were more different from us than most other
Westerners, and could give us greater shocks.

They gave us political unity and that was a desirable thing,
but whether we had this unity or not. Indian nationalism would
have grown and demanded that unity. The Arab world is to
day split up, into a large number of separate states — indepen-
dent, protected, mandatory and the like— but throughout all of
them runs the desire for Arab unity. There can be no doubt
that Arab nationalism would largely achieve this unity if Wes-
tern imperialist powers did not stand in the way. But, as in

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE 437

India, it is the purpose of these powers to encourage disruptive
tendencies and create minority problems which weaken and
partly counteract the nationalist urge and give an excuse to the
imperialist power to stay on and pose as the impartial arbi-
trator.

The political unity of India was achieved incidentally as
a side-product of the Empire’s advance. In later years, when
that unity allied itself to nationalism and challenged alien rule,
we witnessed the deliberate promotion of disunity and sec-
tarianism, formidable obstacles to our future progress.

What a long time it is since the British came here, a century
and three-quarters since they became dominant I They had a
free hand, as despotic governments have, and a magnificent
opportunity to mould India according to their desire. During
these years the world has changed out of all recognition —
England, Europe, America, Japan. The insignificant American
colonies bordering the Atlantic in the eighteenth century con-
stitute to-day the wealthiest, the most powerful and technically
the most advanced nation; Japan, within a brief span, has
undergone amazing changes; the vast territories of the U.S.S.R.,
where till only yesterday the dead hand of the Tsar’s govern-
ment suppressed and stifled all growth, now pulsate with a new
life and build a new world before our eyes. There have been
big changes in India also, and the country is very different
from what it was in the eighteenth century — railways, irrigation
works, factories, schools and colleges, huge government offices,
etc., etc.

And yet, in spite of these changes, what is India like to-day?
A servile state, with its splendid strength caged up, hardly
daring to breathe freely, governed by strangers from afar; her
people poor beyond compare, short-lived and incapable of
resisting disease and epidemic; illiteracy rampant; vast areas
devoid of all sanitary or medical provision; unemployment on
a prodigious scale, both among the middle classes and the
masses. Freedom, democracy, socialism, communism are, we
are told, the slogans of unpractical idealists, doctrinaires or
knaves; the test must be one of the well-being of the people as
a whole. That is indeed a vital test, and by that test India
makes a terribly poor show to-day. We read of great schemes
of unemployment relief and the alleviation of distress in other
countries; what of our scores of millions of unemployed and
the distress that is widespread and permanent? We read also
of housing schemes elsewhere; where are the houses of hun-
dreds of millions of our people, who live in mud huts or have

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

438

no shelter at all? May we not envy the lot of other countries
where education, sanitation, medical relief, cultural facilities,
and production advance rapidly ahead, while we remain where
we were, or plod wearily along at the pace of a snail? Russia
in a brief dozen years of wonderful effort has almost ended
illiteracy in her vast territories, and has evolved a fine and
up-to-date system of education, in touch with the life of the
masses. Backward Turkey, under the Ataturk, Mustapha
KemaFs leadership, has also made giant strides towards wide-
spread literacy. Fascist Italy, on the very threshold of its career,
attacked illiteracy with vigour. Gentile, the Education Minister,
called for "a frontal attack on illiteracy. That gangrenous
plague, which is rotting our body politic, must be extirpated
with a hot iron.” Hard words, unseemly for a drawing-room,
but they show the conviction and energy behind the thought.
We are politer here and use more rounded phrases. We move
warily and exhaust our energies in commissions and commit-
tees.

Indians have been accused of talking too much and doing
little. It is a just charge. But may we not express our wonder
at the inexhaustible capacity of the British for committees and
commissions, each of which, after long labour, produces a
learned report — 44 a great State document ” — which is duly
praised and pigeon-holed? And so we get the sensation of
moving ahead, of progress, and yet have the advantage of
remaining where we were. Honour is satisfied, and vested
interests remain untouched and secure. Other countries discuss
how to get on; we discuss checks and brakes and safeguards
lest we go too fast.

44 The Imperial splendour became the measure of the people's
poverty,” so we are told (by the Joint Parliamentary Committee
*934) °f the Moghal times. It is a just observation, but may we
not apply the same measure to-day? What of New Delhi
to-day with its Viceregal pomp and pageantry, and the Pro-
vincial Governors with all their ostentation? And all this with
a background of abject and astonishing poverty. The contrast
hurts, and it is a little difficult to imagine how sensitive men
can put up with it. India to-day is a poor and dismal sight
behind all the splendours of the imperial frontage. There is
a great deal of patchwork and superficiality, and behind it the
unhappy petty bourgeoisie , crushed more and more by modem
conditions. Further back come the workers, living miserably
in grinding poverty, and then the peasant, that symbol of
India, whose lot it is to be 44 bom to Endless Night ”.

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE

439

“ Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,

The emptiness of ages on his face,

And on his back the burden of the world.

“ Through this dread shape the suffering ages look.

Time’s tragedy is in that aching stoop,

Through this dread shape humanity Defrayed,

Plundered, profaned and disinherited,

Cries protest to the powers that made the world,

A protest that is also prophecy.” 1

It would be absurd to cast the blame for all India’s ills on the
British. That responsibility must be shouldered by us, and we
may not shirk it; it is unseemly to blame others for the inevit-
able consequences of our own weaknesses. An authoritarian
system of government, and especially one that is foreign, must
encourage a psychology of subservience and try to limit the
mental outlook and horizon of the people. It must crush much
that is finest in youth — enterprise, spirit of adventure, origi-
nality, ‘pep’ — and encourage sneakishness, rigid conformity,
and a desire to cringe and please the bosses. Such a system does
not bring out the real service mentality, the devotion to public
service or to ideals; it picks out the least public-spirited persons
whose sole objective is to get on in life. We see what a class
the British attract to themselves in Indial Some of them are
intellectually keen and capable of good work. They drift to
government service or semi-government service because of lack
of opportunity elsewhere, and gradually they tone down and
become just parts of the big machine, their minds imprisoned
by the dull routine of work. They develcm the qualities of a
bureaucracy — “a competent knowledge of clerkship and the
diplomatic art of keeping office ”. At the highest they have a

S assive devotion to thejpublic service. There is, or can be, no
aming enthusiasm. That is not possible under a foreign
government.

But apart from these, the majority of petty officials are not
an admirable lot, for they have only learnt to cringe to their
superiors and bully their inferiors. The fault is not theirs. That
is the training the system gives them. And if sycophancy and
nepotism flourish, as they often do, is it to be wondered at?
They have no ideals in service; the haunting fear of unem-
ployment and consequent starvation pursues them, and their

1 These extracts are from the American poet, E. Markham’s
poem: The Man with the Hoe .

44<> JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

chief concern is to hold on to their jobs and get other jobs for
their relatives and friends. Where the spy and that most
odious of creatures, the informer, always hover in the back-
ground, it is not easy to develop the more desirable virtues in
a people.

Recent developments have made it even more difficult for
sensitive, public-spirited men to join government service. The
Government does not want them, and they do not wish to
associate with it too closely, unless compelled by economic
circumstance.

But, as all the world knows, it is the White Man who bears
the burden of Empire, not the Brown. We have various im-
perial services to carry on the imperial tradition, and a suffi-
ciency of safeguards to protect their special privileges, all, we
are told, in the interests of India. It is remarkable how the
good of India seems to be tied up with the obvious interests
and advancement of these services. If any privilege or prize
post of the Indian Civil Service is taken away, we are told that
inefficiency and corruption will result. If the reserved jobs for
the Indian Medical Service are reduced, this becomes a “ menace
to India’s health.” And of course if the British element in
the army is touched, all manner of terrible perils confront us.

I think there is some truth in this: that if the superior
officials suddenly went away and left their departments in
charge of their subordinates there would be a fall in efficiency.
But that is because the whole system has been built this way,
and the subordinates are not by any means the best men, nor
have they ever been made to shoulder responsibility. I feel
convinced that there is abundant good material in India, and
it could be available within a fairly short period if proper
steps were taken. But that means a complete change in our
governmental and social outlook. It means a new State.

As it is we are told that whatever changes in the constitu-
tional apparatus may come our way, the rigid framework of
the great services which guard and shelter us will continue as
before. Hierophants of the sacred mysteries of government,
they will guard the temple and prevent the vulgar from enter-
ing its holy precincts. Gradually, as we make ourselves worthy
of the privilege, they will remove the veils one after another,
till, in some future age, even the holy of holies stands un-
covered to our wondering and reverent eyes.

Of all these imperial services the Indian Civil Service holds
first place, and to it must largely go the credit or discredit for
the functioning of government in India. We have been fre-

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE

44 *

quently told of the many virtues of this service, and its great-
ness in the imperial scheme has almost become a maxim. Its
unchallenged position of authority in India with the almost
autocratic power that this gives, as well as the praise and
boosting which it receives in ample measure, cannot be wholly
good for the mental equilibrium of any individual or group.
With all my admiration for the Service, I am afraid I must
admit that it is peculiarly susceptible, both individually and
as a whole, to that old and yet somewhat modem disease,
paranoia.

It would be idle to deny the good qualities of the I.C.S., for
we are not allowed to forget them, but so much bunkum has
been and is said about the Service that I sometimes feel that
a little debunking would be desirable. The American economist,
Veblen, has called the privileged classes the “ kept classes ”. I
think it would be equally true to call the I.C.S., as well as the
other imperial services, the “ kept services ”. They are a very
expensive luxury.

Major D. Graham Pole, formerly a Labour member of the
British Parliament and one who is greatly interested in Indian
affairs, writing in the Modern Review some time ago stated
that “ no one has ever tried to dispute the fact that the I.C.S.
is a most able and efficient service.” As similar statements are
frequently made in England and believed, it is worth while
examining this. It is always unsafe to make such positive and
definite statements which can easily be disproved, and Major
Graham Pole is entirely wrong in imagining that the fact has
not been disputed. It has been frequently challenged and dis-
puted, and long ago even Mr. G. K. Gokhale said many hard
things about the I.C.S. The average Indian — Congressman or
non-Congressman — would certainly join issue with Major
Graham Pole. And yet it is possible that both may be partly
right aifd may be thinking of different qualifications. Ability
and efficiency for what? If this ability and efficiency are to be
measured from the point of view of strengthening the British
Empire in India and helping it to exploit the country, the I.C.S.
may certainly claim to have done well. If, however, the test is
the well-being of the Indian masses, they have signally failed,
and their failure becomes even more noticeable when one sees
the enormous distance that separates them in regard to income
and standards of living from the masses they are meant to
serve, and from whom ultimately their varied emoluments
come.

It is perfectly true that the service has, as a whole, kept up

44? JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

a certain standard, though that standard is necessarily one of
mediocrity, and has occasionally thrown up exceptional men.
More could hardly be expected of any such service. It em-
bodied essentially the British Public School spirit, with all its
good and bad points (though many of the members of the
I.C.S. now are not public school men). Though it kept up a
good standard, it disapproved strongly of nonconformity with
the type, and special abilities of individual members lost them-
selves in the dull routine of the day’s work, and to some extent
in the fear of appearing different from the others. There were
many earnest members, many with a conception of service, but
it was service of the Empire, and India came only as a bad
second. Trained and circumstanced as they were, they could
only act in that way. Because they were few in numbers, sur-
rounded by an alien and often unfriendly people, they held
together and kept up a certain standard. The prestige both of
race and office demanded this. And because they had largely
autocratic powers, they resented all criticism, considered it one
of the major sins, became more and more intolerant and
pedagogic, and developed many of the failings of irresponsible
rulers. They were self-satisfied and self-sufficient, narrow and
fixed minds, static in a changing world, and wholly unsuited to
a progressive environment. When abler and more adaptable
minds than theirs tackled the Indian problem they resented
this, called them offensive names, suppressed them and threw
every possible obstacle in their way. And when post-war
changes brought dynamic conditions, they were wholly at sea
and unable to adapt themselves to them. Their limited hide-
bound education had not fitted them for such emergencies and
novel situations. They had been spoilt by a long spell of irres-
ponsibility. As a group they had practically absolute power,
subject only in theory to a control by the British Parliament.
“Power corrupts,” Lord Acton has told us, “and absolute
power corrupts absolutely.”

They were, on the whole, reliable officers in their limited
way, doing their day-to-day work fairly competently, without
brilliance. But their very training was such that a wholly un-
expected situation found them wanting, although their self-
cbnfidence, their methodical nature, and their esprit de corps
helped them to tide over immediate difficulties. The famous
Mesopotamia muddle exposed the British Indian Government
for its inefficiency and * woodenness ’, but many a similar
muddle does not see the light of day. Even their reaction to
Civil Disobedience was crude. To shoot and club may dispose of

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE 443

the opponents for a while, but it does not solve any problem,
and it undermines that very feeling of superiority which it is
meant to protect. It was not surprising that they had recourse
to violence to meet a growing and aggressive nationalist move-
ment. That was inevitable, for empires rest on that and they
had been taught no other way of meeting opposition. But the
fact that excessive and unnecessary violence was used showed
that they had lost all grip of the situation, and no longer

P ossessed the self-control and restraint which they seemed to
ave in normal times. Nerves frequently gave way and even
in their public utterances there was a trace of hysteria. The
calm confidence of other days was gone. A crisis has a pitiless
way of showing us all up and exposing our innermost weak-
nesses. Civil Disobedience was such a crisis and test, and very
few on either side of the barricade — Congress or Government —
survived fully that test. In a crisis the number of men and
women of really first-class calibre is found to be small, says
Mr. Lloyd George, and “ the rest do not count in a crisis. The
hummocks that look like eminences in fine weather are quickly
submerged in a great flood when the highest peaks alone are
visible above the surface of the waters.”

The I.C.S. were intellectually and emotionally not prepared
for what happened. The original training of many of their
members was classical, which gave them a certain culture and
a certain charm. It was an old-world attitude, suitable for the
Victorian Age, but utterly out of place under modem condi-
tions. They lived in a narrow, circumscribed world of their
own — Anglo-Indian — which was neither England nor India.
They had no appreciation of the forces at work in contem-
porary society. In spite of their amusing assumption of being
the trustees and guardians of the Indian masses, they knew
little about them and even less about the new agressive bour-
geoisie. They judged Indians from the sycophants and office-
seekers who surrounded them and dismissed others as agitators
and knaves. Their knowledge of post-war changes all over the
world, and especially in the economic sphere, was of the
slightest, and they were too much in the ruts to adjust them-
selves to changing conditions. They did not realise that the
order they represented was out of date under modem condi-
tions, and that they were approaching as a group more and
more the type which T. S. Elliot describes in The Hollow Men.

And yet that order will continue so long as British im-
perialism continues, and this is powerful enough still and has
able and resourceful leaders. The British Government in India

444 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

is like a tooth that is decaying, but is still strongly imbedded.
It is painful, but it cannot be easily pulled out. The pain is
likely to continue, and even grow worse, till the tooth is taken
out or falls out itself.

The Public School type has had its day even in England, and
does not occupy the same place as it did, although it is still
prominent in public affairs. In India it is still more out of
place, and it can never fit in or co-operate with an aggressive
nationalism, much less with those working for social change.

There are of course many excellent men, both English and
Indian, in the I.C.S. but, so long as the present system pre-
vails their excellence will be devoted to objects which are not
beneficial to the Indian people. Some Indian members of the
Service are so overcome by this Public School spirit that they
become plus royaliste que le rou I remember meeting a youth-
ful Indian member of the I.C.S. who had a very high opinion
of himself which unfortunately I could not share. He pointed
out to me the many virtues of his Service, and ended up by
the unanswerable argument in favour of the British Empire —
was it not better than the Roman Empire and the Empires of
Chengiz Khan and Timur?

The underlying assumption of the I.C.S. is that they dis-
charge their duties most efficiently, and therefore they can lay
every stress on their claims, and the claims are many and
varied. If India is poor, that is the fault of her social customs,
her banias and money-lenders, and above all, her enormous
population. The greatest bania of all, the British Government
in India, is conveniently ignored. And what they propose to do
about this population I do not know, for in spite of a great
deal of help received from famines, epidemics, and a high
death-rate generally, the population is still overwhelming. Birth-
control is proposed and I, for one, am entirely in favour of the
spread of the knowledge and methods of birth-control. But
the use of these methods itself requires a much higher standard
of living for the masses, some measure of general education,
and innumerable clinics all over the country. Under present
conditions birth-control methods are completely out of reach
for the masses. The middle classes can profit by them as, I
believe, they are doing to a growing extent.

But this argument of over-population is deserving of further
notice. The problem to-day all over the world is not one of
lack of food or lack of otner essentials, but actually lack of
mouths to feed, or, to put it differently, lack of capacity to buy
food, etc., for those who are in need. Even in India, considered

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE 445

apart, there is no lack of food, and though the population has
gone up, the food supply has increased and can increase more
proportionately than the population. Then again the much
advertised increase of population in India has been (except in
the last decade) at a much lower rate than in most Western
countries. It is true that in future the difference will be greater,
for various forces are tending to lessen or even stop population
increase in Western countries. But limiting factors are likely to
check population increase in India also soon.

Whenever India becomes free, and in a position to build her
new life as she wants to, she will necessarily require the best
of her sons and daughters for this purpose. Good human
material is always rare, and in India it is rarer still because of
our lack of opportunities under British rule. We shall want
the help of many foreign expens in many departments of
public activity, particularly in those which require special
technical and scientific knowledge. Among those who have
served in the I.C.S. or other imperial services there will be
many, Indians or foreigners, who will be necessary and wel-
come to the new order. But of one thing I am quite sure, that
no new order can be built up in India so long as the spirit of
the I.C.S. pervades our administration and our public services.
That spirit of authoritarianism is the ally of imperialism, and
it cannot co-exist with freedom. It will either succeed in
crushing freedom or will be swept away itself. Only with one
type of state it is likely to fit in, and that is the fascist type.
Therefore it seems to me quite essential that the I.C.S. and
similar services must disappear completely, as such, before we
can start real work on a new order. Individual members of
these services, if they are willing and competent for the new
job, will be welcome, but only on new conditions. It is quite
inconceivable that they will get the absurdly high salaries and
allowances that are paid to them to-day. The new India must
be served by earnest, efficient workers who have an ardent faith
in the cause they serve and are bent on achievement, and who
work for the joy and glory of it, and not for the attraction of
high salaries. The money motive must be reduced to a mini-
mum. The need for foreign helpers will be considerable, but
I imagine that the least wanted will be civil administrators who
have no technical knowledge. There will be no lack of such
people in India.

I have previously stated how the Indian Liberals, and other
groups like them, nave accepted British ideology with reference
to the government of India. This is especially noticeable in

446 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

regard to the Services, for their cry is for * indianisation * and
not for radical change of the spirit and nature of the Services
and the State structure. This is a vital matter on which it is
impossible to give in, for Indian freedom is bound up not only
with the withdrawal of British Forces and Services, but also
with the elimination of the authoritarian spirit that inspired
them, and a levelling down of their salaries and privileges.
There is a great deal of talk of safeguards in these days of
constitution-making. If these safeguards are to be in the in-
terests of India, they should lay down, among other things, that
the I.C.S. and similar services should cease to exist, in their
present form and with the powers and privileges they possess,
and should have nothing to do with the new constitution.

Even more mysterious and formidable are the so-called
Defence Services. We may not criticise them, we may not say
anything about them, for what do we know about such matters?
We must only pay and pay heavily without murmuring. A
short while ago, in September 1934, Sir Philip Chetwode, the
Commander-in-Chief in India, speaking in the Council of State
at Simla, told Indian politicians, in pungent military language,
to mind their own business and not interfere with his. Re-
ferring to the mover of an amendment to some proposition, he
said : “ Do he and his friends think that a war-worn and war-
wise race like the British, who won their Empire at the point
. of the sword and have kept it by the sword ever since, are to
be talked out of war wisdom which that experience brings to
a nation by armchair critics. . . .? ” He made many other inter-
esting remarks, and we were informed, lest we might think that
he had spoken in the heat of the moment, that he had care-
fully written out his speech and spoke from a manuscript.

It is, of course, an impertinence for a layman to argue about
military matters with a Commander-in-Chief, and yet perhaps
even an armchair critic might be permitted to make a few
observations. It is conceivable that the interests of those who
hold the Empire by the sword and those over whose heads
this shining weapon ever hangs, might differ. It is possible that
an Indian army might be made to serve Indian interests or to
serve imperial interests, and the two might differ or even con-
flict with -each other. A politician and an armchair critic might
also wonder if the claims of eminent generals for freedom from
interference are valid after the experiences of the World War.
They had a free field then to a large extent, and from all
accounts they made a terrible mess of almost everything in
every army— British. French, German, Austrian, Italian,

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE 447

Russian. Captain Liddell Hart, the distinguished British
military historian and strategist, writes in his History of the
World War that at one stage in the War while British soldiers
fought the enemy, British generals fought one another. The
national peril did not bring unity of thought or effort. The
War, he continues, “ has shattered our faith in idols, our hero-
worshipping belief that great men are different clay from
common men. Leaders are still necessary, perhaps more neces-
sary, but our awakened realisation of their common humanity
is a safeguard against either expecting from them, or trusting
in them, too much.”

That arch-politician, Mr. D. Lloyd George, has painted in his
War Memoirs a terrible picture of the failings and blunders of
the generals and admirals in the World War, blunders which
cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of men. England and
her allies won the War, but it was a “ blood-stained stagger to
victory the reckless and unintelligent handling of men and
situations by the high officers brought England almost to the
rim of catastrophe, and she and her allies were saved largely
by the incredible folly of their foes. So writes the great War
Premier of Britain, and he explains how he had to undertake
surgical operations in order to get ideas into Lord Jellicoe’s
head, especially in regard to the proposal for having a convoy
system. Of the French Marshal Joffre, he seems to think that
his chief virtue was the possession of a resolute countenance
which inspired a sense of strength. “That is what harassed
people instinctively seek in trouble. They make the mistake of
thinking that the seat of intelligence is in the chin.”

But Mr. Lloyd George's main indictment is against the
British High Command itself, the Commander-in-Chief, Field-
Marshal Haig. He demonstrates how Lord Haig's inordinate
vanity and refusal to listen to politicians and others, made him
conceal important facts from the British Cabinet itself, and led
the British Army in France to one of its greatest disasters.
And even when failure stared him in the face! obstinate to the
last, he continued his ill-advised offensive for several months
in that awful mud of Passchendaele and Cambrai, till seventeen
thousand officers alone lay dead and dying, and four hundred
thousand gallant British soldiers were 'casualties'. It is well
that the ‘ Unknown Soldier ' is honoured to-day after his death;
his life was cheap, and he had little consideration when he was
alive.

Politicians, like all other people, err frequently, but demo-
cratic politicians have to be sensitive and responsive to men

448 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and events, and they usually realise their mistakes and try to
repair them. The soldier is bred in a different atmosphere,
where authority reigns and criticism is not tolerated. So he
resents the acfvice of others and when he errs, he errs
thoroughly and persists in error. For him the chin is more
important than the mind or brain. In India we have the
advantage of having produced a mixed type, for the civil
administration itself has grown up and lives in a semi-military
atmosphere of authority and self-sufficiency, and possesses
therefore to a great extent the soldier’s chin and other virtues.

We are told that the process of ' indianisation ’ of the army
is being pushed on, and in another thirty years or more an
Indian general might even appear on the Indian stage. It is
possible that in not much more than a hundred years the
process of indianisation might be considerably advanced. One
is apt to wonder how, in a moment of crisis, England built up
a mighty army of millions within a year or two. If it had
possessed our mentors, perhaps it would have proceeded more
cautiously and warily. It is possible of course that the War
would have been over long before this soundly-trained army
was ready for it. One thinks also of the Russian Soviet armies
growing out of almost nothing and facing and triumphing over
a host of enemies, and to-day constituting one of the most
efficient fighting machines in the world. They did not appa-
rently possess “ war-worn and war-wise ” generals to advise them.

We have now a military academy at Dehra Dun where
gentlemen cadets are trained to become officers. They are very
smart on parade, we are told, and they will no doubt make
admirable officers. But I wonder sometimes what purpose this
training serves, unless it is accompanied by technical training.
Infantry and cavalry are about as much use to-day as the
Roman phalanx, and the rifle is little better than a bow and
arrow in an age of air warfare, gas bombs, tanks, and powerful
artillery. No doubt their trainers and mentors realise this.

What has been the record of British rule in India? Who are
we to complain of its deficiencies when they were but the
consequences of our own failings? If we lose touch with the
river of change and enter a backwater, become self-centred and
self-satisfied, and, ostrich-like, ignore what happens elsewhere,
we do so at our peril. The British came to us on the crest of
a wave of new impulse in the world, and represented mighty
historic forces which they themselves hardly realised. Are we
to complain of the cyclone that uproots us and hurls us about.

THE RECORD OF BRITISH RULE 449

or the cold wind that makes us shiver? Let us have done with
the past and its bickering and face the future. To the British
we must be erateful for one splendid gift of which they were
the bearers, the gift of science and its rich offspring. It is diffi-
cult, however, to forget or view with equanimity the efforts of
the British Government in India to encourage the disruptive,
obscurantist, reactionary, sectarian, and opportunist elements in
the country. Perhaps that too is a needed test and challenge
for us, and before India is reborn it will have to go through
again and again the fire that cleanses and tempers and bums
up the weak, the impure and the corrupt.

LV

A CIVIL MARRIAGE AND A QUESTION
OF SCRIPT

After spending about a week in Poona and Bombay in the
middle of September 1933 , 1 returned to I ucknow, My mother
was still in hospital there, and was improving very slowly.
Kamala was also in Lucknow, trying to attend on her, although
she was not very well herself. My sisters used to come over
from Allahabad for the week-ends. I remained in Lucknow for
two or three weeks, and I had more leisure there than I was
likely to have in Allahabad, my chief occupation being visits
to the hospital twice daily. I utilised my spare hours in writing
some articles for the Press, and these were widely published all
over the country. A series of articles entitled “ Whither India? ”,
in which I had surveyed world affairs in relation to the Indian
situation, attracted considerable attention. I learnt later that
these articles were even reproduced in Persian translations in
Teheran and Kabul. There was nothing novel or original in
these articles for any one in touch with recent developments
and modem Western thought. But in India our people had
been too engrossed in their domestic troubles to pay much
attention to what was happening elsewhere. The reception
given to my articles, as well as many other indications, showed
that they were developing a wider outlook.

My mother was getting very tired of being in hospital, and
we decided to take her back to Allahabad. One of the reasons
for this was my sister Krishna’s engagement, which had just
then been announced. We wanted to have the marriage as soon
as possible, before I was suddenly removed to prison again. I
had no notion how long I would be allowed to remain out, as
Civil Disobedience was still the official programme of the Con-
gress, and the Congress itself and scores of other organisations
were illegal.

We fixed the marriage for the third week of October in
Allahabad. It was to be a civil ceremony. I was glad of this,
though" as a matter of fact we had no choice in the matter.
The marriage was between two different castes, a Brahman and
a non-Brahman, and under present British Indian Law no
religious ceremony had validity for such a marriage. Fortu-
nately a recently passed Civil Marriage Act came to our rescue.

450

CIVIL MARRIAGE AND A QUESTION OF SCRIPT 45 1

There were two such Acts, the second one, under which my
sister’s marriage took place, being confined to Hindus and those
belonging to allied faiths — Buddhists, Jains, Sikhs. But if either
party does not belong to one of these faiths, by birth or con-
version, then this second Act does not apply and the first Civil
Marriage Act has to be resorted to. This first Act requires from
both the parties a denunciation of all the leading religions, or
at any rate a statement that they do not belong to them. This
wholly unnecessary denunciation is a great nuisance. Many
people, even though they are not religiously inclined, object to
this statement ana thus cannot take advantage of the Act. The
orthodox of various faiths oppose all changes which would
facilitate inter-marriages. The result is that they drive people
either to make that statement of denunciation or to a patently
superficial conversion to get within the law. Personally 1 should
like to encourage inter-marriages, but whether they are en-
couraged or not, it is very necessary to have a permissive general
civil marriage Act, applicable to persons of all religions, per-
mitting them to marry without any denunciation or change of
faith.

There was no fuss about my sister’s wedding; it was a very
simple affair. Ordinarily I dislike the fuss attendant on Indian
marriages. In view of my mother’s illness and, even more so,
the fact that civil disobedience was still going on and many of
our colleagues were in prison, anything in the nature of show
was singularly out of place. Only a few relatives and local
friends were invited. Many old friends of my father’s were hurt
because they frit, quite wrongly, that I had purposely ignored
them.

The little invitation we issued for the wedding was written in
Hindustani in the Latin script. This was an innovation, as
such invitations are always either in the nagri or the Persian
script, and the idea of writing Hindustani in the Latin script
is almost unknown, except in army and missionary circles. I
used the Latin script as an experiment, and I ’wanted to see the
reactions of various people, it had a mixed reception, mostly
unfavourable. The recipients were few: if a larger circle had
been approached the reaction would have been still more un-
favourable. Gandhiii did not approve of what I had done.

I did not use the Latin script because I had become a convert
to it, although it had long attracted me. Its success in Turkey
and Central Asia had impressed me, and the obvious arguments
in its favour were weighty. But even so I was not convinced,
and even if I had been convinced, I knew well that it did not

452 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

stand the faintest chance of being adopted in present-day India.
There would be the most violent opposition to it from all groups,
nationalist, religious, Hindu, Muslim, old and new. And I feel
that the opposition would not be merely based on emotion. A
change of script is a very vital change for any language with a
rich past, for a script is a most intimate part of its literature.
Change the script and different word-pictures arise, different
sounds, different ideas. An almost insurmountable barrier is put
up between the old literature and the new, and the former be-
comes almost a foreign language that is dead. Where there is no
literature worth preserving this risk should be taken. In India I
can hardly conceive of the change, for our literature is not only
rich and valuable but is bound up with our history and our
thought, and is intimately connected with the lives of our
masses. It would be cruel vivisection to force such a change, and
it would retard our progress in popular education.

But this question is not even an academic one in India to-day.
The next step in script reform for us seems to me the adoption
of a common script for the daughter languages of Sanskrit —
Hindi, Bengali, Marathi and Gujrati. As it is, their scripts have
a common origin and do not differ greatly, and it should not
be difficult to strike a common mean. This would bring these
four great sister languages much nearer to each other.

One of the legends about India which our English rulers
have persistently circulated all over the world is that India has
several hundred languages — I forget the exact number. For
proof there is the census. Of these several hundred, it is an
extraordinary fact that very few Englishmen know even one
moderately well, in spite of a life-long residence in this country.
They class the lot of these together and call them the * Verna-
cular \ the slave language (from the Latin verna, a home-bom
slave), and many of our people have, unknowingly, accepted
this nomenclature. It is astonishing how English people spend
a life-time in India without taking the trouble to learn the
language well. They have evolved, with the help of their
khansamahs and ayahs , an extraordinary jargon, a kind of
pidgin-Hindustani, which they imagine is the real article. Just
as they take their facts about Indian life from their subordinates
and sycophants, they take their ideas about Hindustani from
their domestic servants, who make a point of speaking their
pidgin language to the sahib-log for fear that they would not
understand anything else. They seem to be wholly ignorant of
the fact that Hindustani, as well as the other Indian languages,
have high literary merit and extensive literatures.

CIVIL MARRIAGE AND A QUESTION OF SCRIPT 453

If the census tells us that India has two or three hundred
languages, it also tells us, I believe, that Germany has about
fifty or sixty languages. I do not remember any one pointing
out this fact in proof of the disunity or disparity of Germany.
As a matter of fact, a census mentions all manner of petty
languages, sometimes spoken by a few thousand persons only;
and often dialects are classed, for scientific purposes, as different
languages. India seems to me to have surprisingly few lan*
guages, considering its area. Compared to the same area in
Europe, it is far more closely allied in regard to language, but
because of widespread illiteracy, common standards have not
developed and dialects have formed. The principal languages
of India (excluding Burma) are Hindustani (of the two varieties,
Hindi and Urdu), Bengali, Gujrati, Marathi, Tamil, Telegu,
Malayalam and Canarese. If Assamese, Oriya, Sindhi, Pushtu
and Punjabi are added, the whole country is covered, except for
some hill and forest tribes. Of these, the Indo-Aryan languages,
which cover the whole north, centre and west of India, are
closely allied; and the southern Dravidian languages, though
different, have been greatly influenced by Sanskrit and are full
of Sanskrit words.

The eight principal languages mentioned above have all old
and valuable literatures, and each of them is spoken to-day over
a vast area, which is definite and clearly marked. Thus from
the point of view of numbers speaking a language, these lan-
guages are among the major languages of the world. Fifty
million people speak Bengali. As for Hindustani, with its varia-
tions, it is spoken, I imagine (I have no figures here), by about
a hundred and forty millions in India, and it is partly under-
stood by a vast number of others all over the country. 1 Such a
language has obviously enormous possibilities. It rests on the
solid foundation of Sanskrit and it is closely allied to Persian.
Thus it can draw from two rich sources, and of course, in recent
years, it has drawn from English. The Dravidian country in
the south is the only part where Hindustani comes as almost a
foreign tongue, but the people there are making a great effort
to learn it. Two years ago (in 1932) I saw some figures of a
private voluntary society which had undertaken the teaching of
Hindi in the south. During the previous fourteen years, since
its formation, it was stated that 550,000 persons had learnt Hindi
through its efforts in the Madras Presidency alone. For a volun-

1 The following figures have been given by the advocates of Hin-
dustani. I do not know if they are based on the last census of 1931

454 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

tary effort, which is supported in no wav by the State, this is
remarkable, and most of the persons who learn Hindi them*
selves become missionaries in the cause.

I have no doubt whatever that Hindustani is going to be the
common language of India. Indeed it is largely so to-day for
ordinary purposes. Its progress has been hampered by foolish
controversies about the script, nagri or Persian, and by the mis-
directed efforts of the two factions to use language which is
either too Sanskritised or too Persianised. There is no way out
of the script difficulty, for it arouses great heat and passion,
except to adopt both officially, and allow people to use either.
But an effort must be made to discourage the extreme tenden-
cies and develop a middle literary language, on the lines of the
spoken language in common use. With mass education this will
inevitably take place. At present the small middle-class groups,
that are supposed to be the arbiters of literary taste and style,
are terribly narrow-minded and conservative, each in its own
way. They cling to antique forms that have no life in them and
have few contacts with their own masses or with world
literature.

The development and spread of Hindustani must not and
will not conflict with the continued use and enrichment of the
other great languages of India— Bengali, Gujrati, Marathi,
Oriya and the Dravidian languages of the south. Some of these
languages are already more wide-awake and intellectually alert
than Hindustani, and they must remain the official languages
for educational and other purposes in their respective areas.

or the previous one of 1921. I imagine they refer to the latter, and
up-to-date figures would show a considerable increase under each
head.

Hindustani (including western Hindi, Pun-
jabi and Rajasthani)

Bengali

Telegu

Marathi

Tamil

Canarese

Oriya

Gujrarl

Total

139.3 millions

49-3 «

23.6

18.8

18.8

10.3

10.1 „

9-6

279.8

Some languages like Pushtu, Assamese and, of couse, Burmese,
which is entirely different, linguistically and territorially, have been
omitted from this list.

CIVIL MARRIAGE AND A QUESTION OF SCRIPT 4 55

Only through them can education and culture spread rapidly
among the masses.

Some people imagine that English is likely to become the
lingua franca of India. That seems to me a fantastic concep-
tion, except in respect of a handful of upper-class intelligentsia.
It has no relation to the problem of mass education and culture.
It may be, as it is partly to-day, that English will become in-
creasingly a language used for technical, scientific and business
communications, and especially for international contacts. It is
essential for many of us to know foreign languages in order to
keep in touch with world thought and activities, and I should
like our universities to encourage the learning of other lan-
guages besides English — French, German, Russian, Spanish,
Italian. This does not mean that English should be neglected,
but if we are to have a balanced view of the world we must not
confine ourselves to English spectacles. We have already become
sufficiently lop-sided in our mental outlook because of this con-
centration on one aspect and ideology, and even the most rabid
of our nationalists hardly realise how much they are cribbed
and confined by the British outlook in relation to India.

But however much we may encourage the other foreign lan-
guages, English is bound to remain our chief link with the out-
side world. That is as it should be. For generations past we
have been trying to learn English, and we nave achieved a fair
measure of success in the endeavour. It would be folly to wipe
the slate clean now and not to take full advantage of this long
training. English also is to-day undoubtedly the most wide-
spread and important world language, and it is gaining fast on
the other languages. It is likely to become more and more the
medium of international intercourse and radio broadcasting,
unless ‘ American ’ takes its place. Therefore we must continue
to spread the knowledge of English. It is desirable to learn it as
well as possible, but it does not seem to me worth while for us
to spend too much time and energy in appreciating the finer
points of the language, as many of us do now. Individuals may
do that, but to set it as an ideal for large numbers is to put a
needless burden on them and prevent them from progressing in
other directions.

I have been greatly attracted lately by * Basic English and it
seems to me that this extreme simplification of English has a
great future before it. It would be desirable for us to undertake
the teaching of Basic English on an extensive scale rather than
Standard English, which can be left to specialists and particular
students.

JAWAHARLAL NEKRV

45 6

I would personally like to encourage Hindustani to adapt and
assimilate many words from English and other foreign lan-
guages. This is necessary, as we lack modem terms, and it is
better to have well-known words rather than to evolve new and
difficult words from the Sanskrit or Persian or Arabic. Purists
object to the use of foreign words, but I think they make a
great mistake, for the way to enrich our language is to make it
flexible and capable of assimilating words and ideas from other
languages.

I happened to go, soon after my sister’s wedding, to Benares
to visit an old friend and colleague, Shiva Prasad Gupta, who
had been lying ill for over a year. He was in Lucknow Gaol
when he had a sudden attack of paralysis, and he had been
recovering from it very slowly ever since. During my Benares
visit, a small Hindi literary society gave me an address and I
had a pleasant informal talk with its members. I told them that
I hesitated to speak to experts on subjects I knew little about,
but still I made a few suggestions. I criticised the intricate and
ornate language that was customary in Hindi writing, full of
difficult Sanskrit words, artificial, and clinging to ancient forms.
I ventured to suggest that this courtly style, addressed to a select
audience, should be given up, and Hindi writers should deliber-
ately write for the masses and in language understood by
them. Mass contacts would give new life and sincerity to the
language, and the writers themselves would catch some of the
emotional energy of the mass and do far better work. Further,
I suggested that if Hindi authors paid more attention to
Western thought and literature, they would derive great benefit
from it; it would be desirable to have translations from the
classics of the European languages as well as from books dealing
with modem ideas. I also mentioned that probably modern
Bengali, Gujrati and Marathi were a little more advanced
in these matters than modem Hindi, and certainly more cre-
ative work had been done in Bengali in recent years than in
Hindi.

We had a friendly talk about these matters and then I came
away. I had no idea that my remarks would be sent to the
Press, but some one present sent a report to the Hindi papers.

And then there was a tremendous outcry in the Hindi Press
against me and at my presumption in criticising Hindi and
comparing it, to its disadvantage, with Bengali, Gujrati and
Marathi. I was called an ignoramus — which indeed I was in
that particular subject — and many harder words were used to
squash and suppress me. I had no time to follow the contro-

CIVIL MARRIACE AND A QUESTION OF SCRIPT 457

versy and it went on, I am told, for months, till I was again in
prison.

This incident was a revelation to me. It revealed the extra-
ordinary sensitiveness of Hindi literary men and journalists,
and their refusal to face a little honest criticism from one who
wished them well. The inferiority complex was evidently at
work. Self-criticism there was none a r all, and critical standards
were poor. It was not unusual for an author and his critic to
fall out and accuse each other of personal motives. The whole
outlook was narrow, bourgeois and parochial, and both the jour-
nalists and the authors seemed to write for each other and for a
small circle, ignoring the vast public and its interests. It seemed
to me an extraordinary pity and an unhappy waste of energy
when the field was so vast and inviting.

Hindi literature has a fine past, but it cannot live for ever on
its past. I feel sure that it has a great future, and that Hindi
journalism will be a tremendous power in this country. But
neither will progress much till it shakes itself free of narrow
conventions and boldly addresses the masses.

LVI

COMMUNALISM AND REACTION

About the time of my sister's wedding came news of Vithal-
bhai J. Patel’s death in Europe. He had long been ailing, and it
was because of his ill-health that he had been released from
prison in India. His passing away was a painful event, and the
thought of our veteran leaders leaving us in this way, one after
another, in the middle of our struggle, was an extraordinarily
depressing one. Many tributes were paid to Vithalbhai, and
most of these laid stress on his ability as a parliamentarian and
his success as President of the Assembly. This was perfectly
true, and yet this repetition irritated me. Was there any lack of
good parliamentarians in India or of people who could fill the
Speaker’s chair with ability? That was the one job for which
our lawyer’s training had fitted us. Vithalbhai had been some-
thing much more than that— he had been a great and indomi-
table fighter for India’s freedom.

During my visit to Benares in November I was invited to
address the students of the Hindu University. I gladly accepted
this invitation and addressed a huge gathering presided over by
Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya, the Vice-Chancellor. In the
course of my speech I had much to say about communalism,
and I denounced it in forcible language, and especially con-
demned the activities of the Hindu Mahasabha. This was not
exactly a premeditated attack, but for a long time past my mind
had been full of resentment at the increasingly reactionary
efforts of the communalists of all groups, and as I warmed up
to my subject, some of this resentment came out. Deliberately
I laid stress on the reactionary character of the Hindu com-
munalists, for there was no point in my criticising Muslims
before a Hindu audience. At the moment, it did not strike me
that it was not in the best of taste to criticise the Hindu Maha-
sabha at a meeting presided over by Malaviyaji, who had long
been one of its pillars. I did not think of this, as he had not
had much to do with it lately, and it almost seemed that the
new aggressive leaders of the Mahasabha had pushed him out.
So long as he had been one of the leading spirits, the Maha-
sabha, in spite pf its communalism, had not been politically
reactionary. But latterly this new development has become very
patent, and I felt sure that Malaviyaji could not have anything

45*

COMMUNALISM AND REACTION 459

to do with it and must have disapproved of it. Still, it was not
quite right for me, as I realised later, to have taken an undue
advantage of his invitation by making remarks which put him
in an awkward position. I was sorry for this.

I was also sorry for a foolish error into which I had fallen.
Some one sent us by post a copy of a resolution which, it stated,
had recently been passed in Ajmer by a Hindu young men’s
organisation. This resolution was most objectionable and I
referred to it in my Benares speech. As a matter of fact no such
resolution had been passed by any organisation, and we had been
the victims of a hoax.

My Benares speech, briefly reported, created an uproar. Used
as I was to such outcries, I was quite taken aback by the vehe-
mence of the attack of the Hindu Mahasabha leaders. These
attacks were largely personal and seldom touched the point in
issue. They overreached themselves, and soon I was glad of
them, for they gave me an opportunity for having my say on
the subject. I had been bursting with it for months past, even
when I was in prison, but did not know how to tackle it. It was
a hornets’ nest, and though I was used to hornets, it was no
pleasure to enter into controversies which degenerated into
abuse. But now I had no choice, and I wrote what I considered
a reasoned article on Hindu and Muslim communalism, show-
ing how in neither case was it even bona fide communalism, but
was political and social reaction hiding behind the communal
mask. I happened to possess odd newspaper cuttings, which I
had collected in prison, of various speeches and statements of
communal leaders. Indeed I had so much material that I was
hard put to it how to compress it in a newspaper article.

This article of mine was given great publicity in the Indian
Press. But strange to say there was no response to it from either
side — Hindu or Muslim communalists — although there was a
great deal about both in my article. The Hindu Mahasabha
leaders, who had denounced me in the most vigorous and varied
language, now remained perfectly silent. From the Muslim side
Sir Mohamad Iqbal endeavoured to correct .some of my facts
regarding the second Round Table Conference, but otherwise
he did not say anything about my argument. It was in my
reply to him that I suggested that a Constituent Assembly
should decide both the political and communal issues. Later I
wrote one or two additional articles on communalism. I was
very much heartened, not only by the reception of all these
articles, but by the visible effect they were producing on people
who tried to think. I did not imagine, of course, that I could

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

460

conjure away the passions that underlay the communal spirit.
My object was to point out that the communal leaders were
allied to the most reactionary elements in India and England,
and were in reality opposed to political, and even more so to
social advance. All their demands had no relation whatever to
the masses. They were meant only to bring some advancement
to the small groups at the top. It was my intention to carry on
with this reasoned attack when prison claimed me again. The
oft-repeated appeal for Hindu-Muslim unity, useful as it no
doubt is, seemed to me singularly inane, unless some effort
was made to understand the causes of the disunity. Some
people, however, seem to imagine that by a frequent repetition
of the magic formula, unity will ultimately emerge.

It is interesting to trace British policy since the Rising of 1857
in its relation to the communal question. Fundamentally and
inevitably it has been one of preventing the Hindu and Muslim
from acting together, and of playing off one community
against another. After 1857 the heavy hand of the British fell
more on the Muslims than on the Hindus. They considered the
Muslims more aggressive and militant, possessing memories
of recent rule in India, and therefore more dangerous. The
Muslims had also kept away from the new education and had
few jobs under the Government. All this made them suspect.
The Hindus had taken far more kindly to the English language
and clerkly jobs, and seemed to be more docile.

The new nationalism then grew up from above — the upper-
class English-speaking intelligentsia — and this was naturally
confined to the Hindus, for the Muslims were educationally very
backward. This nationalism spoke in the gentlest and most
abject of tones, and yet it was not to the liking of the Govern-
ment, and they decided to encourage the Muslims more and
keep them away from the new nationalist platform. Lack of
English education was in itself a sufficient bar then, so far as
the Muslims were concerned, but this was bound to go gradu-
ally. With foresight the British provided for the future, and in
this task they were helped by an outstanding personality — Sir
Syed Ahmad Khan.

Sir Syed was unhappy about the backward condition of his
community, especially in education, and he was distressed at the
lack of favour and influence it had in the eyes of the British
Government. Like many of his contemporaries, he was a great
admirer of the British, and a visit to Europe seems to have had
a most powerful effect on him. Europe, or rather Western
Europe, of the second half of the nineteenth century was at

COMMUNALISM AND REACTION 461

the height of its civilisation, the unchallenged mistress of the
world, with all the qualities that had made it great most in
evidence. The upper classes were secure in their inheritance and
adding to it, with little fear of a successful challenge. It was the
age of a growing liberalism and a firm belief in a great destiny.
It is not surprising that the Indians who went there were fasci-
nated by this imposing spectacle. More Hindus went there to
begin with and they returned admirers of Europe and England.
Gradually they got used to the shine and glamour, and the first
surprise wore off. But in Sir Syed’s case that first surprise and
fascination is very much in evidence. Visiting England in 1869,
he wrote letters home giving his impressions. In one of these
he stated: “The result of all this is that although I do not
absolve the English in India of discourtesy, and of looking upon
the natives of that country as animals and beneath contempt, I
think they do so from not understanding us; and I am afraid I
must confess that they are not far wrong in their opinion of us.
Without flattering the English, I can truly say that the natives
of India, high and low, merchants and petty shopkeepers,
educated and illiterate, when contrasted with the English in
education, manners and uprightness, are as like them as a dirty
animal is to an able and handsome man. The English have
reason for believing us in India to be imbecile brutes. . . . What
I have seen, and seen daily, is utterly beyond the imagination
of a native of India. . . . All good things, spiritual and worldly,
which should be found in man, have been bestowed by the
Almighty on Europe, and especially on England.” 1

Greater praise no man could .give to the British and to
Europe, and it is obvious that Sir Syed was tremendously im-
pressed. Perhaps also he used strong language and heightened
the contrasts in order to shake up his own people out of their
torpor and induce them to take a step forward. This step, he
was convinced, must be in the direction of Western education;
without that education his community would become more and
more backward and powerless. English education meant govern-
ment jobs, security, influence, honour. So to this education he
turned all his energy, trying to win over his community to his
way of thinking. He wanted no diversions or distractions from
other directions; it was a difficult enough piece of work to over-
come the inertia and hesitation of the Muslims. The be-
ginnings of a new nationalism, sponsored by the Hindu
bourgeoisie, seemed to him to offer such a distraction, and he

1 This quotation has been taken from Hans Kohn’s History of
Nationalism in the East.

462 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

opposed it. The Hindus, half a century ahead in Western edu-
cation, could indulge in this pastime of criticising the Govern-
ment, but he had counted on the full co-operation of that
Government in his educational undertakings and he was not
going to risk this by any premature step. So he turned his
back on the infant National Congress, and the British Govern-
ment were only too willing to encourage this attitude.

Sir Syed’s decision to concentrate on Western education for
Muslims was undoubtedly a right one. Without that they could
not have played any effective part in the building up of Indian
nationalism of the new type, and they would have been doomed
to play second fiddle to the Hindus with their better education
and far stronger economic position. The Muslims were not
historically or ideologically ready then for the bourgeois
nationalist movement as they had developed no bourgeoisie as
the Hindus had done. Sir Syed’s activities, therefore, although
seemingly very moderate, were in the right revolutionary direc-
tion. The Muslims were still wrapped up in a feudal anti-
democratic ideology, while the rising middle class among the
Hindus had begun to think in terms of the European liberals.
Both were thoroughly moderate and dependent on British rule.
Sir Syed’s moderation was the moderation of the landlord-class
to which the handful of well-to-do Muslims belonged. The
Hindu’s moderation was that of the cautious professional or
business man seeking an outlet for industry and investment.
These Hindu politicians looked up to the shining lights of
English liberalism — Gladstone, Bright, etc. I doubt if the
Muslims did so. Probably they admired the Tories and the
landed classes of England. Gladstone, indeed was their bite noir
because of his repeated condemnation of Turkey and the
Armenian massacres; and because Disraeli seemed to be more
friendly to Turkey they — that is of course the handful who
took interest in such matters — were to some extent partial to
him.

Some of Sir Syed Ahmad Khan’s speeches make strange
reading to-day. At a speech delivered in Lucknow in December
1887 he seems to have criticised and condemned the very
moderate demands of the National Congress which was hold-
ing its annual sessions just then. Sir Syed said: "... If
Government fight Afghanistan or conquer Burma, it is no
business of ours to criticise its policy. . . . Government has
made a Council for making laws. . . . For this Council she
selects from all Provinces those officials who are best acquainted
with the administration and the condition of the people, and

COMMUNALISM AMD REACTION 463

also some Raises who, on account of their high social position,
are worthy of a seat in that assembly. Some people may ask-
why should they be chosen on account of social position in*
stead of ability? ... I ask you— Would our aristocracy like
that a man of low caste or insignificant origin, though he be a
BA. or M.A. and have the requisite ability, should be in a
position of authority above them and have power in making
the laws that affect their lives and property? Never 1 . . . None
but a man of good breeding can the Viceroy take as his col*
league, treat as his brother, and invite to entertainments at
which he may have to dine with Dukes and Earls. . . . Can we
say that the Government, in the method it has adopted for
legislation, acts without regard to the opinions of the people?
Can we say that we have no share in the making of the laws?
Most certainly not.” 1

Thus spoke the leader and representative of the * democracy
of Islam’ in Indial It is doubtful if even the taluqadars of
Oudh, or the landed magnates of Agra Province, Behar, or
Bengal would venture to speak in this vein to-day. And yet
Sir Syed was by no means unique in this. Many of the Con-
gress speeches read equally strangely to-day. But it seems clear
that the political and economic aspect of the Hindu-Muslim
question then was this: the rising and economically better-
equipped middle class (Hindu) was resisted and checked to some
extent by part of the feudal landlord-class (Muslim). The
Hindu landlords were often closely connected with their
bourgeoisie, and thus remained neutral or even sympathetic
to the middle-class demands which were often influenced by
them. The British, as always, sided with the feudal elements.
The masses and the lower middle classes on either side were not
in the picture at all.

Sir Syed’s dominating and forceful personality impressed
itself on the Indian Muslims, and the Aligarh College became
the visible emblem of his hopes and desires. In a period of
transition a progressive impulse may soon play out its part and
be reduced to functioning as a brake. The Indian Liberals are
an obvious example of this. They remind us often that they
are the true heirs of the old Congress tradition and we of a
later day are interlopers. True enough. But they forget that
the world changes and the old Congress tradition has vanished
with the snows of yester-year and only remain as a memory.
So also Sir Syed’s message was appropriate and necessary when

1 Taken from Hans Kohn’s History of Nationalism in the East.

464 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

it came, but it could not be the final ideal of a progressive
community. It is possible that had he lived a generation later,
he would himself have given another orientation to that
message. Or other leaders could have re-interpreted his old
message and applied it to changing conditions. But the very
success that came to Sir Syed and the reverence that clung to
his memory made it difficult for others to depart from the old
faith; and, unhappily, the Muslims of India were strangely
lacking in men of outstanding ability who could point a new
way. Aligarh College did fine work, produced a large number
of competent men, and changed the whole tone of the Muslim
intelligentsia, but still it could not wholly get out of the frame-
work in which it was built — a feudal spirit reigned over it, and
the goal of the average student’s ambition was government
service. Not for him the adventures of the spirit or the quest
of the stars: he was happy if he got a Deputy Collectorship.
His pride was soothed by his being reminded that he was a
unit in the great democracy of Islam, and in witness of this
brotherhood, he wore jauntily on his head the red cap, called
the Turkish fez, which the Turks themselves soon afterwards
were going to discard utterly. Having assured himself of his
inalienable right to democracy, which enabled him to feed and
pray with his brother Muslims, he did not worry about the
existence or otherwise of political democracy in India.

This narrow outlook and hankering after government service
was not confined to the Muslim students of Aligarh and else-
where. It was equally in evidence among the Hindu students
who were far from being adventurous by nature. But circum-
stances forced many of them out of the rut. There were far
too many of them and not enough jobs to go round, and so
they became the diclasse intellectuals who are the backbone of
national revolutionary movements.

The Indian Muslims had not wholly recovered from the
cramping effects of Sir Syed Ahmad Khan’s political message
when the events of the early years of the twentieth century
helped the British Government to widen the breach between
them and the nationalist movement, now clamant and aggres-
sive. Sir Valentine Chirol*wrote in 1910 in his Indian Unrest:
“It may be Confidently asserted that never before have the
Mohammadans of India as a whole identified their interests
and their aspirations so closely as at the present day with the
consolidation and permanence of British rule.” Political pro-
phesies are dangerous. Within five years after Sir Valentine
wrote, the Muslim intelligentsia was trying hard to break

COMMUNALISM AND REACTION 465

through from the fetters that kept it back and to range itself
beside the Congress. Within a decade the Indian Muslims
seemed to have outstripped the Congress and were actually
giving the lead to it. But these ten years were momentous
years* and the Great War had come and gone and left a broken-
down world as a legacy.

And yet Sir Valentine had superficially every reason to come
to the conclusion he did. The Aga Khan had emerged as the
leader of the Muslims* and that fact alone showed that they
still clung to their feudal traditions, for the Aga Khan was no
bourgeois leader. He was an exceedingly wealthy prince and
the religious head of a sect, and from the British point of view
he was very much a persona grata because of his close associa-
tion with the British ruling classes. He was widely cultured,
and lived mostly in Europe, the life of a wealthy English
landed magnate and sportsman; he was thus far from being
personally narrow-minded on communal or sectarian matters.
His leadership of the Muslims meant the lining up of the
Muslim landed classes as well as the growing bourgeoisie with
the British Government; the communal problem was really
secondary and was obviously stressed in the interests of
the main objective. Sir Valentine Chirol tells us that the
Aga Khan impressed upon Lord Minto, the Viceroy, 44 the
Mahommedan view of the political situation created by the
partition of Bengal, lest political concessions should be hastily
made to the Hindus which would pave the way for the ascen-
dency of a Hindu majority equally dangerous to the stability
of British rule and to the interests of the Mahommedan
minority whose loyalty was beyond dispute."

But behind this superficial lining up with the British Govern-
ment other forces were working. Inevitably the new Muslim
bourgeoisie was feeling more and more dissatisfied with existing
conditions and was being drawn towards the nationalist move-
ment. The Aga Khan himself had to take notice of this and
to warn the British in characteristic language. He wrote in the
Edinburgh Review of January 1914 (that is, long before the
War) advising the Government to abandon the policy of
separating Hindus from Muslims, and to rally the moderate of
both creeds in a common camp so as to provide a counterpoise
to the radical nationalist tendencies of young India — -both
Hindu and Muslim. It was thus clear that he was far more in-
terested in checking political change in India than in the
communal interests of Muslims.

But the Aga Khan or the British Government could not stop
o

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

466

the inevitable drift of the Muslim bourgeoisie towards national-
ism. The World War hastened the process, and as new leaders
arose the Aga Khan seemed to retire into the background. Even
Aligarh College changed its tone, and among the new leaders
the most dynamic were the Ali Brothers, both products of
Aligarh. Doctor M. A. Ansari, Moulana Abul Kalam Azad,
and a number of other bourgeois leaders now began to play
an important part in the political affairs of the Muslims. So
also, on a more moderate scale, Mr. M. A. Jinnah. Gandhiji
swept most of these leaders (not Mr. Jinnah) and the Muslims
generally into his non-co-operation movement, and they played
a leading part in the events of 1919-23.

Then came the reaction, and communal and backward ele-
ments, both among the Hindus and the Muslims, began to
emerge from their enforced retirement. It was a slow process,
but it was a continuous one. The Hindu Mahasabha for the
first time assumed some prominence, chiefly because of the
communal tension, but politically it could not make much
impression on the Congress. The Muslim communal organisa-
tions were more successful in regaining some of their old
prestige among the Muslim masses. Even so a very strong
group of Muslim leaders remained throughout with the
Congress. The British Government meanwhile gave every
encouragement to the Muslim communal leaders who were
politically thoroughly reactionary. Noting the success of these
reactionaries, the Hindu Mahasabha began to compete with
them in reaction, thereby hoping to win the goodwill of
the Government. Many of the progressive elements in the
Mahasabha were driven out or left of their own accord, and it
inclined more and more towards the upper middle classes, and
especially the creditor and banker class.

The communal politicians on both sides, who were inter-
minably arguing about percentages of seats in legislatures,
thought only in terms of patronage which influence in Govern-
ment gives. It was a struggle for jobs for the middle-class in-
telligentsia. There were obviously not enough jobs to go round,
and so the Hindu and Muslim communalists quarrelled about
them, the former on the defensive, for they had most of the
existing jobs, the latter always wanting more and more. Be-
hind this struggle for jobs there was a much more important
contest which was not exactly communal but which influenced
the communal issue. On the whole the Hindus were, in the
Punjab, Sind, and Bengal, the richer, creditor, urban class; the
Muslims in these provinces were the poorer, debtor, rural class.

COMMUNAL1SM AND REACTION 467

The conflict between the two was therefore often economic, but
it was always given a communal colouring. In recent months
this has come out very prominently in the debates on various
provincial bills for reducing the burden of rural debt, especially
m the Punjab. The representatives of the Hindu Mahasabha
have consistently opposed these measures and sided with the
banker class.

The Hindu Mahasabha is always laying stress on its own
irreproachable nationalism when it criticises Muslim communal*
ism. That the Muslim organisations have shown themselves to
be quite extraordinarily communal has been patent to every-
body. The Mahasabha’s communalism has not been so obvious,
as it masquerades under a nationalist cloak. The test comes
when a national and democratic solution happens to injure
upper-class Hindu interests, and in this test the Mahasabha
has repeatedly failed. The separation of Sind has been con-
sistently opposed by them in the economic interests of a minority
and against the declared wishes of the majority.

But the most extraordinary exhibition of anti-nationalism
and reaction, both on the part of Muslim and Hindu com-
munalists, took place at the Round Table Conferences. The
British Government had insisted on nominating only definitely
communal Muslims, and these, under the leadership of the Aga
Khan, actually went to the length of allying themselves with
the most reactionary and, from the point of view not only of
India but of all progressive groups, the most dangerous elements
in British public life. It was quite extraordinary to see the dose
association of the Aga Khan and his group with Lord Lloyd and
his party. They went a step further, and made pacts with the
representatives of the European Association and others at the
R.T.C. This was very depressing, for this Association has been
and is, in India, the stoutest and the most aggressive opponent
of Indian freedom.

The Hindu Mahasabha delegates responded to this by de-
manding, especially in the Punjab, all manner of checks on
freedom — safeguards in the interests of the British. They tried
to outbid the Muslims in their attempts to offer co-operation
to the British Government, and, without gaining anything,
damned their own case and betrayed the cause of freedom.
The Muslims had at least spoken with dignity, the Hindu com-
munalists did not even possess this.

The outstanding fact seems to me how, on both sides, the
communal leaders represent a small upper class reactionary
group, and how these people exploit and take advantage of the

468 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

religious passions of the masses for their own ends. On both
sides every effort is made to suppress and avoid the considera-
tion of economic issues. Soon the time will come when these
issues can nq longer be suppressed, and then, no doubt, the
communal leaders on both sides will echo the Aga Khan’s
warning of twenty years ago for the moderates to join hands
in a common camp against radical tendencies. To some extent
that is already evident, for however much the Hindu and
Muslim communalists attack each other in public they co-
operate in the Assembly and elsewhere in helping Government
to pass reactionary measures. Ottawa was one of the links
which brought the three together.

Meanwhile it is interesting to notice that the Aga Khan’s
close association with the extreme Right wing of the Conserva-
tive party continues. In October 1934 he was the guest of
honour at the British Navy League dinner, at which Lord
Lloyd presided, and he supported wholeheartedly the proposals
I for further strengthening the British Navy, which Lord Lloyd
had made at the Bristol Conservative Conference. An Indian
leader was thus so anxious* about imperial defence and the
safety of England that he wanted to go further in increasing
British armaments than even Mr. Baldwin or the ‘National’
Government. Of course, this was all in the interest of peace.

The next month, in November 1934, it was reported that a
film was privately shown in London, the object of which was
“ to link the Muslim world in lasting friendship with the British
Crown ”. We were informed that the guests of honour on this
occasion were the Aga Khan and Lord Lloyd. It would seem
that the Aga Khan and Lord Lloyd have become almost as
inseparably united — two hearts that beat as one — in imperial
affairs, as Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and Mr. M. R. Jayakar are in
our national politics. And it is worth noticing that, during
these months when the two were so frequently communing
with each other, Lord Lloyd was leading a bitter and unre-
lenting attack on the official Conservative leadership and the
National Government for their alleged weakness in giving too
much to India. 1

Latterly there has been an interesting development in the
speeches and statements of some of the Muslim communal
leaders. This has no real importance, but I doubt if many

1 Recently a Council of some British peers and Indian Muslims
has been formed to cement and further the union of these extreme
reactionary elements.

COMMUNALISM AND REACTION 469

people think so, nevertheless it is significant of the men*
tality of communaIi8m, and a great deal of prominence has
been given to it. Stress has been laid on the ‘ Muslim nation ’
in India, on ‘ Muslim culture ’ on the utter incompatibility of
Hindu and Muslim ' cultures The inevitable deduction from
this is (although it is not put baldly) that the British must
remain in India for ever and ever to hold the scales and
mediate between the two ‘ cultures

A few Hindu communal leaders think exactly on the same
lines, with this difference, however, that they hope that being
in a majority their brand of 4 culture ’ will ultimately prevail.

Hindu and Muslim 4 cultures ’ and the 4 Muslim nation ’ —
how these words open out fascinating vistas of past history
and present and future speculation! The Muslim nation in
India — a nation within a nation, and not even compact, but
vague, spread out, indeterminate. Politically, the idea is absurd,
economically it is fantastic; it is hardly worth considering. And
yet it helps us a little to understand the mentality behind it.
Some such separate and unmixable ‘ nations ’ existed together
in the Middle Ages and afterwards. In the Constantinople of
the early days of the Ottoman Sultans each such ‘ nation ’
lived separately and had a measure of autonomy — Latin
Christians, Orthodox Christians, Jews, etc. This was the be-
ginning of extra-territoriality which, in more recent times,
became such a nightmare to many eastern countries. To talk
of a 4 Muslim nation ’, therefore, means that there is no nation
at all but a religious bond; it means that no nation in the
modem sense must be allowed to grow; it means that modem
civilisation should be discarded and we should go back to the
medieval ways; it means either autocratic government or a
foreign government; it means, finally, just nothing at all except
an emotional state of mind and a conscious or unconscious de-
sire not to face realities, especially economic realities. Emotions
have a way of upsetting logic, and we may not ignore them
simply because they seem so unreasonable. But this idea of a
Muslim nation is the figment of a few imaginations only, and,
but for the publicity given to it by the Press, few people would
have heard of it. And even if many people believed in it, it
would still vanish at the touch of reality.

So also the ideas of Hindu and Muslim 4 culture ’. The day
of even national cultures is rapidly passing and the world is
becoming one cultural unit. Nations may retain, and will retain
for a long time much that is peculiar to them — language, habits,
ways of thought, etc. — but the machine age and science, with

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

470

swift travel, constant supply of world news, radio, cinema, etc.,
will make them more ana more uniform. No one can fight
against this inevitable tendency, and only a world catastrophe
which shatters modem civilisation can really check it. There
are certainly many differences between the traditional Hindu
and Muslim philosophies of life. But these differences are
hardly noticeable when both of them are compared to the
modem scientific and industrial outlook on life, for between
this latter and the former two there is a vast gulf. The real
struggle to-day in India is not between Hindu culture and
Muslim culture, but between these two and the conquering
scientific culture of modem civilisation. Those who are de-
sirous of preserving 1 Muslim culture whatever that may be,
need not worry about Hindu culture, but should withstand the
giant from the West. I have no doubt, personally, that all
efforts, Hindu or Muslim, to oppose modem scientific and in-
dustrial civilisation are doomed to failure, and I shall watch
this failure without regret. Our choice was unconsciously and
involuntarily made when railways and the like came here.
Sir Syed Ahmad Khan made his choice on behalf of the
Indian Muslims when he started the Aligarh College. But
none of us had really any choice in the matter, except the
choice which a drowning man has to clutch at something which
might save him.

But what is this ‘Muslim culture'? Is it a kind of racial
memory of the great deeds of the Arabs, Persians, Turks, etc.?
Or language? Or art and music? Or customs? I do not re-
member any one referring to present-day Muslim art or
Muslim music. The two languages which have influenced
Muslim thought in India are Arabic and Persian, and especi-
ally the latter. But the influence of Persian has no element of
religion about it. The Persian language and many Persian
customs and traditions came to India in the course of thou-
sands of years and impressed themselves powerfully all over
north India. Persia was the France of the East, sending its
language and culture to all its neighbours. That is a common
and a precious heritage for all of us in India.

Pride in the past achievements of Islamic races and countries
is probably one of the strongest of Islamic bonds. Does any
one grudge the Muslims this noble record of various racesr
No one can take it away from them so long as they choose to
remember it and cherish it. As a matter of fact, this past
record is also to a large extent a common heritage for all of
us, perhaps because we feel as Asiatics a common bond uniting

COMMUN ALISM AND REACTION 47 I

us against the aggression of Europe. I know that whenever I
have read of the conflicts of the Arabs in Spain or during the
Crusades, my sympathies have always been with them. I try
to be impartial and objective, but, try as I will, the Asiatic
in me influences my judgment when an Asiatic people are
concerned.

I have tried hard to understand what this ‘ Muslim culture *
is, but I confess that I have not succeeded. I find a tiny handful
of middle-class Muslims as well as Hindus in north India in-
fluenced by the Persian language and traditions. And looking
to the masses the most obvious symbols of 1 Muslim culture '
seem to be: a particular type of pyjamas, not too long and
not too short, a particular way of shaving or clipping the mous-
tache but allowing the beard to grow, and a lota with a special
kind of snout, just as the corresponding Hindu customs are
the wearing of a dhoti , the possession of a topknot, and a lota
of a different kind. As a matter of fact, even these distinctions
are largely urban and they tend to disappear. The Muslim
peasantry and industrial workers are hardly distinguishable
from the Hindu. The Muslim intelligentsia seldom sports a
beard, though Aligarh still fancies a red Turkish cap with a
fez (Turkish it is called, although Turkey will have none of it).
Muslim women have taken to the sari and are emerging rather
slowly from the purdah . My own tastes do not harmonise with
some of those habits, and I do not fancy beards or moustaches
or topknots, but I have no desire to impose my canons of taste
on others, though I must confess, in regard to beards, that I
rejoiced when Amanullah began to deal with them in sum-
mary fashion in Kabul.

I must say that those Hindus and Muslims who are always
looking backward, always clutching at things which are slip-
ping away from their grasp, are a singularly pathetic sight. I
do not wish to damn the past or to reject it, for there is so
much that is singularly beautiful in our past. That will endure
I have no doubt. But it is not the beautiful that these people
clutch at, but something that is seldom worth while and is often
harmful.

In recent years Indian Muslims have had repeated shocks,
and many of their deeply cherished notions have been shat-
tered. Turkey, that champion of Islam, has not only ended
the Khilafat, for which India put up such a brave fight in 1920,
but has taken step after step away from religion. In the new
Turkish Constitution an article stated that Turkey was a
Moslem State, but, lest there be any mistake, Kemal Pasha

47 ? JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

said in 1927 : “ The provision in the Constitution that Turkey
is a Moslem State is a compromise destined to be done away
with at the first opportunity.” And I believe he acted up to
this hint later on. Egypt, though much more cautiously, is
going the same way and keeping her politics quite apart m>m
religion. So also the Arab countries, except Arabia itself, which
is more backward. Persia is looking back to pre-Islamic days
for her cultural inspiration. Everywhere religion recedes into
the background and nationalism appears in aggressive garbs,
and behind nationalism other isms which talk in social and
economic terms. What of the 4 Muslim nation 1 and 1 Muslim
culture'? Are they to be found in the future only in northern
India, rejoicing under the benign rule of the British?

If progress consists in the individual taking a broader view
of what constitutes politics, our communalists as well as our
Government have deliberately and consistently aimed at the
opposite of this — the narrowing of this view.

LVII

IMPASSE

The possibility of my re-arrest and conviction always hung over
me. It was, indeed, more than a possibility when the land was
ruled by Ordinances and the like and the Congress itself was
an illegal organisation. Constituted as the British Government
was, and constituted as I was, my supression seemed inevitable.
This ever-present prospect influenced my work. I could not
settle down to anything, and I was in a hurry to get through
as much as possible.

And yet I had no desire to invite arrest, and to a large extent
I avoided activities which might lead to it. Invitations came to
me from many places in the province and outside to undertake
a tour. I refused them, for any such speaking tour could only
be a raging campaign which would be abruptly ended. There
was no half-way house for me then. When I visited any place
for some other object — to confer with Gandhiji and the Work-
ing Committee members — I addressed public meetings and
spoke freely. In Jubbulpore we had a great meeting and a very
impressive procession; in Delhi the gathering was one of the
biggest I had seen there. Indeed, the very success of these
meetings made it clear that the Government would not tolerate
their frequent repetition. In Delhi, soon after the meeting,
there was a very strong rumour of my impending arrest, but
I survived and returned to Allahabad, breaking journey at
Aligarh to address the Muslim University students there.

I disliked the idea of taking part in non-political public
activities when the Government was trying to crush all effective
political work. I found a strong tendency among Congressmen
to seek shelter from such work by engaging in the most hum-
drum activities which, though desirable m themselves, had
little to do with our struggle. The tendency was natural, but
I felt that it should not be encouraged just then.

In the middle of October 1933 we had meetings of- our U.P.
Congress workers in Allahabad to consider the situation and
decide on future work. The Provincial Congress Committee
was an illegal body, and as our object was to meet and not just
to defy the law, we did not formally convene this committee.
But we asked all its members who were outside gaol, as well as
other selected workers, to come to an informal conference.
m

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

474

There was no secrecy about our meetings, though they were
private, and we did not know till the last moment whether the
Government would interfere or not. At these meetings we paid
a great deal of attention to the world situation — the great
slump, naziism, communism, etc. We wanted our comrades to
see the Indian struggle in relation to what was happening else-
where. The conference ultimately passed a socialistic resolution
defining our objective and expressed itself against the with-
drawal of civil disobedience. Everybody knew well enough
that there was no chance of widespread civil disobedience, and
even individual civil disobedience was likely to peter out soon
or continue on a very restricted scale. But a withdrawal made
little difference to us as the Government offensive and Ordinance
laws continued. So, more as a gesture than anything else, we
decided to continue the formal civil disobedience but in effect
our instructions to our workers were not to go out of their way
to invite arrest. They were to carry on their normal work and
if arrest came in the course of tnat, to accept it with good
grace. In particular, they were asked to renew contacts with
the rural areas and find out the condition of the peasantry,
both as a result of the remissions of rent and Government
repression. There was no question of a no-rent campaign then.
This had been formally withdrawn after the Poona Conference,
and it was obvious that it could not be revived under the cir-
cumstances.

This programme was a mild and inoffensive one with nothing
patently illegal in it, and yet we knew that it would lead to
arrests. As soon as our workers went to the villages they were
arrested and charged, quite wrongly, with preaching a no-rent
campaign (which had been made an offence under the Ordi-
ance laws) and convicted. It was my intention to go to these
rural areas after the arrest of many of my comrades, but other
activities claimed my attention and I postponed my visit till it
was too late.

Twice, during those months, the members of the Working
Committee met together to consider the all-India situation.
The Committee itself was not functioning, not so much because
it was an illegal body but because, at Gandhiji’s instance after
Poona, all Congress Committees and offices had been suspended.
I happened to occupy a peculiar position as, on coming out of
gaol, I refused to join this self-denying ordinance and insisted on
calling myself the General Secretary of the Congress. But I
functioned in the air. There was no proper office, no staff, no
acting-president, and Gandhiji, though available for consul-

IMPASSE

47J

cation, was busy with one of his tremendous all-India tours,
this time for Harijan work. We managed to catch him during
his tour at Jubbulpore and Delhi and held our consultations
with Working Committee members. They served to bring out
clearly the differences between various members. There was
an impasse, and no way out of it agreeable to everybody. Gan-
dhiji was the deciding factor between those who wanted to with-
draw civil disobedience and those who were againsr this. As he
was then in favour of the latter course, matters continued as
before.

The question of contesting elections on behalf of the Con-
gress to the legislatures was sometimes discussed by Congress-
men, though the Working Committee members were not much
interested in this at the time. It did not arise; it was obviously
premature. The ‘Reforms’ were not likely to materialise for
another two or three years at least, and there was then no
mention of fresh elections for the Assembly. Personally I had
no theoretical objection to contesting elections, and I felt sure
in my mind that when the time came the Congress would have
to go in for them. But to raise this question then was only to
distract attention. I hoped that the continuance of our struggle
would clear up the issues that faced us and prevent the com-
promising elements from dominating the situation.

Meanwhile I continued sending articles and statements to the
Press. To some extent I had to tone down my writings, for they
were written with a view to publication, and there was the
censor and various laws whose octopus-like tentacles reached
far. Even if I was prepared to take risks, the printers, pub-
lishers and editors were not. On the whole the newspapers were
good to me and stretched many a point in my favour. But not
always. Sometimes statements and passages were suppressed,
and once a whole long article, over which I had taken some

J ains, never saw the light of day. When I was in Calcutta in
anuary 1934 the editor of one of the leading dailies came to
see me. He told me that he had sent one of my statements to
the Editor-in-Chief of all Calcutta newspapers ‘for his opinion,
and as the Editor-in-Chief had disapproved of it, it had not
been published. The ‘ Editor-in-Chief ’ was the Government
Press Censor for Calcutta.

In some of my Press interviews and statements I ventured to
criticise forcibly some groups and individuals. This was re-
sented, partly because of the idea, which Gandhiji had helped
to spread, that Congress could be attacked without any danger
of its hitting back. Gandhiji himself had set an example of

476 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

this and in varying degrees leading Congressmen had followed
his lead, though sometimes this was not so. Usually we stuck
to vague and pious phrases, and this gave an opportunity to our
critics to get away with their faulty reasoning and opportunist
tactics. The real issues were avoided on both sides, and an
honest discussion, with occasional parry and thrust, seldom took
place, as it does in Western countries, except where fadsm
prevails.

A friend, whose opinion I valued, wrote to me that she had
been a little surprised at the vigour of some of my statements to
the Press — I was almost becoming ‘ cattish ’. Was this the out-
come of ‘ frustration ' of my hopes? I wondered. Partly it was
true, for nationally all of us suffer from frustration. Indi-
vidually also it must have been true to some extent. Yet I was
not very conscious of the feeling because personally I had no
sensation of suppression or failure. Ever since Gandhiji came
within my ken politically, I learnt one thing at least from him :
not to suppress my ideas within me for fear of the consequences.
That habit— followed in the political sphere (in other spheres it
would be more difficult and dangerous to follow}— has often got
me into trouble, but it has also brought much satisfaction with
it. I think that it is because of this that many of us have
escaped real bitterness of heart and the worst kinds of frus-
tration. The knowledge also that large numbers of people think
of mie with affection is very soothing and is a powerful antidote
against defeatism and frustration. The most terrible of all
feelings, I imagine, is to be alone, forgotten by others.

But, even so, how can one escape m this strange, unhappy
world a feeling of frustration? How often everything seems to
go wrong, and though we carry on, doubts assail us when we
see the quality of human material around us. I am afraid I feel
anger and resentment often enough at various happenings and
developments, and even at persons and groups. And latterly
I have begun to resent more and more the drawing-room atti-
tude to life, which ignores vital issues and considers it improper
to refer to them, because they happen to touch one's pocket or
pet prejudices. With all this resentment and frustration and
'cattishness *, I hope I have not yet lost the gift of laughing at
my own and other people’s follies.

I sometimes wonder at the faith of people in a beneficent
Providence : how it survives shock after snoot, and how disaster
itself and disproof of beneficence are considered but tests of
the soundness of that faith. Those delightful lines of Gerard
Hopkins find an echo in many a heart :

IMPASSE

477

“ Thou art indeed just. Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.

Why do sinners’ ways prosper} and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?

Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend.

How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,

Sir, life upon thy cause. . . .”

Faith in progress, in a cause, in ideals, in human goodness
and human destiny — are they not nearly allied to faith in a
Providence? If we seek to Justify them by reason and logic
immediately we get into difficulties. But something within us
clutches to that hope and faith, for, deprived of them, life
would be a wilderness without an oasis.

The effect of my socialist propaganda upset even some of
my colleagues of the Working Committee. They would have
put up with me without complaint, as they had done for several
years during which I had been carrying on this propaganda,
but I was now frightening to some extent the vested interests
in the country, and my activities could no longer be called
innocuous. I knew that some of my colleagues were no
Socialists, but I had always thought that, as a member of the
Congress Executive I had perfect freedom to carry on socialist
propaganda without committing the Congress to it. The realisa-
tion that some members of the Working Committee did not
think that I had that freedom came as a surprise. I was putting
them in a false position and they resented it. But what was I to
do? I was not going to give up what I considered the most
important part of my work. I would much rather resign from
the Working Committee if there was a conflict between the
two. But how could I resign when the Committee was illegal
and was not even functioning properly?

This difficulty faced me again later — I think it was towards
the end of December — when Gandhiji wrote to me from
Madras. He sent me a cutting from the Madras Mail containing
an interview he had given. The interviewer had asked him
about me and he had replied almost apologising for my acti-
vities and expressing his faith in my rectitude: I would not
commit the Congress to these novel ways. I did not particu-
larly fancy this reference to me, but what upset me much more
was Gandhiji’s defence, further on in the interview, of the big
zamindari system. He seemed to think that this was a very
desirable part of rural and national economy. This was a great

47^ JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

surprise to me for the big zamindaris and taluqas have very
few defenders to-day. All over the world they have been broken
up, and even in India most people recognise that they cannot
last long. Even taluqadars and zamindars would welcome an
end of the system provided, of course, they got sufficient com-
pensation therefor. 1 The -system is indeed sinking of its own
weight. And yet Gandhiji was in favour of it and talked of
trusteeship and the like. How very different was his outlook
from mine, I thought again, and I wondered how far I could
co-operate with him in future. Must I continue to remain in
the Working Committee? There was no way out just then, and
a few weeks later the question became irrelevant because of my
return to prison.

My domestic affairs took up a lot of my time. My mother’s
health continued to improve, but very slowly. She was still bed-
ridden, but she seemed to be out of danger. I turned to my
financial affairs which had been long neglected and were in a
muddle. We had been spending much more than we could
afford, and there seemed to be no obvious way of reducing our
expenditure. I was not particularly anxious about making
both ends meet. Almost I looked forward to the time when I
would have no money left. Money and possessions are useful
enough in the modem world, but often they become a burden
for one who wants to go on a long journey. It is very difficult
for moneyed people to take part in undertakings which involve
risk; they are always afraid of losing their goods and chattels.
What is the good of money or property if the Government can
take possession of it when it chooses, or even confiscate it? So
I almost wished to get rid of what little I had. Our needs were
few and I felt confident of my ability to earn enough. My
chief concern was that my mother, in the evening of her life,
should not suffer discomforts or any marked lowering of the
standard of living. I was also anxious that my daughter’s
education should not be interfered with, and this, according to
my thinking, involved a stay in Europe. Apart from this,

1 Mr. P. N. Tagore, Chairman of the Reception Committee of the
All-Bengal Landholders’ Conference, said in his address on Decem-
ber 23, 1934: “Personally I will not regret the day when lands of
the zamindars are nationalised, as has been done m Ireland, upon
payment pf adequate compensation to the landlord.” It should be
remembered that the Bengal landholders, being under the Per-
manent Settlement, are better off than the landholders in the
BOn-permanently settled areas. Mr. P. N. Tagore’s ideas about
nationalisation appear to be vague.

IMPASSE

479

neither my wife nor I had any special need for money. Or so
we thought, being unused to the real lack of it. I am quite
sure that when the time comes when we lack money, we shall
not be happy about it. One extravagance which I have kept
up will be hard to give up, and this is the buying of books.

To improve the immediate financial situation we decided to
sell off my wife’s jewellery, the silver and other similar articles
that we possessed, as well as many cart-loads of odds and ends.
Kamala did not like the idea of parting with her jewellery,
although she had not worn any of it for a dozen years and it
had lain in the bank. But she had looked forward to handing
it on to our daughter.

It was January 1934. Continued arrests of our workers in the
villages of the Allahabad district, although innocently em-
ployed, seemed to demand that we should follow in their steps
and visit those villages. Rafi Ahmad Kidwai, our very effective
secretary of the U.P. Provincial Congress Committee, was also
under arrest. January 26th — Independence Day — was coming
and it could not be ignored. Despite Ordinances and prohi-
bitions it had been regularly observed in various parts of the
country every year since 1930. But who was to give the lead?
And what was the lead to be? There was no one besides me
who was functioning, even in theory, as an official of the All-
India Congress. I consulted some friends and almost all agreed
that something should be done, but there was no agreement as
to what this something should be. I found a general tendency
to avoid any action which might lead to arrests on a large scale.
Eventually I issued a brief appeal for the appropriate celebra-
tion of Independence Day, the manner of doing so to be
decided by each local area for itself. In Allahabad we planned
a fairly widespread celebration all over the district.

We felt that the organisers of this Independence Day celebra-
tion would be arrested on that day. Before I went back to
prison again I wanted to pay a visit to Bengal. This was partly
to meet old colleagues there, but really it was to be a gesture
in the nature of tribute to the people of Bengal for their
extraordinary sufferings during the past few years. I knew
very well that I could do nothing to help them. Sympathy and
fellow-feeling did not go far, and yet they were very welcome,
and Bengal was especially suffering from a sense of isolation,
of being deserted by the rest of India in her hour of need.
That feeling was nor justified, but nevertheless it was there.

I had also to go to Calcutta with Kamala to consult our
doctors there about her treatment. She had been far from well,

480 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

but we had both tried to overlook this to some extent and post-
pone recourse to a treatment which might involve a long stay
m Calcutta or elsewhere. We wanted to be together as much
as possible during my brief period outside prison. After I
went back to gaol, I thought, she would have plenty of time for
doctors and treatment. Now that arrest seemed near, I decided
to have these consultations at least in my presence in Calcutta;
the rest could be attended to later.

So we decided to go to Calcutta, Kamala and I, on January
15th. We wanted to return in good time for our Independence
Day meetings.

LVIII

EARTHQUAKE

It was the afternoon of the 15th January, 1934. I was stand-
ing in the veranda of our house in Allahabad addressing a
group of peasants. The annual Magh Mela had begun, and we
had crowds of visitors all day. Suddenly I became unsteady on
my feet and could hardly keep my balance. I clung on to a
column near by. Doors started banging and a rumbling noise
came from the adjoining Swaraj Bhawan, where many of the
tiles were sliding down the roof. Being unaccustomed to earth-
quakes, I did not know at first what was happening, but I soon
realised it. I was rather amused and interested at this novel
experience and I continued my talk to the peasants and began
telling them about the earthquake. My old aunt shouted out
to me from some distance to run out of the building. The idea
struck me as absurd. I did not take the earthquake seriously,
and in any event I was not going to leave my bed-ridden mother
upstairs, and my wife, who was probably packing, also upstairs
and seek safety for myself. For what seemed quite an appre-
ciable time the shocks continued and then passed off. They
provided a few minutes’ conversation and soon were almost
forgotten. We did not know then, nor could we guess, what
those two or three minutes had meant to millions in Behar and
elsewhere.

That evening Kamala and I left for Calcutta and, all un-
knowing, we were carried by our train that night through the
southern earthquake area. The next day there was little news
in Calcutta about the disaster. The day after bits of news began
to come in. On the third day we began to have a faint notion
of the calamity.

We busied ourselves with our Calcutta programme. There
were plenty of doctors to be seen repeatedly, and it was finally
decided that Kamala was to come back to Calcutta for treat-
ment a month or two later. Then there were friends and Con-
gress colleagues whom we had not met for a long time. I had
a terrible sense of oppression all the time. People seemed to
be afraid of doing almost anything lest trouble should come
to them; they had gone through much. Newspapers were more
cautious than anywhere else in India. There was also, as else-
where in India, doubt and confusion about future work. It was

481

482 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

indeed this doubt, and not so much fear, that prevented any
effective political activity. There were fascist tendencies muen
in evidence, and socialist and communist tendencies — all rather
vague and running into each other. It was difficult to draw
hard and fast lines between these groups. I had neither the
time nor the opportunity to find out much about the terrorist
movement, which was receiving a great deal of attention and
advertisement from official sources. As far as I could gather, it
had no political significance whatever, and the old members
of the terrorist groups had no faith left in it. They were
beginning to think on different lines. Resentment at Govern-
ment action in Bengal had, however, led individuals here and
there to break loose and indulge in a kind of feud. Indeed, on
either side this idea of a feud seemed to be dominant. On the
side of the individual terrorists this was obvious enough. On
the side of the State also the attitude was far more that of
carrying on a feud, with occasional reprisals, than of calmly
grappling with an anti-social occurrence and suppressing it. Any
government faced by terroristic acts is bound to combat them
and try to suppress them. But serene control is more becoming
in a government than excessive action applied indiscriminately
to guilty and innocent alike, and chiefly to the latter because
they are sure to be more numerous. Perhaps it is not easy to
remain calm and collected in the face of such a threat. Ter-
roristic acts were becoming rare, but the possibility of them
was ever present, and this was enough to upset the composure
of those who had to deal with them. Such acts, it is patent
enough, are not a disease but the symptoms of a disease. It is
futile to treat the symptoms and not tne disease itself.

I believe that a number of young men and women, who are
supposed to have dealings with terrorists, are really attracted by
the glamour of secret work. Secrecy and risk have always an
appeal for the adventurous type of youth; the desire to be in the
know, to find out what all this shouting is about, and who are
these men behind the scenes. It is the call of the detective
story. These people have no intention of doing anything,
certainly not a terroristic act, but their mere association with
suspects in the eyes of the police is enough to make them sus-
pect also. Soon they are likely to find themselves in the ranks
of the detenus, or in an internment camp, if a worse fate does
not await them.

Law and order, we are told, are among the proud achieve-
ments of British rule in India. My own instincts are entirely
in favour of them. I like discipline in life, and dislike anarchy

EARTHQUAKE

483

and disorder and inefficiency. But bitter experience has made
me doubt the value of the law and order that states and
governments impose on a people. Sometimes the price one pays
for them is excessive, and the law is but the will of the domi-
nant faction and the order is the reflex of an all-pervading fear.
Sometimes, indeed, the so-called law and order might be more
justly called the absence of law and order. Any achievement
that is based on widespread fear can hardly be a desirable one,
and an ‘ order ’ that has for its basis the coercive apparatus of
the State, and cannot exist without it, is more like a military
occupation than civil rule. I find in the Rajatarangini, the
thousand-year-old rashmiri historic epic of the poet Kalhana,
that the phrase which is repeatedly used in the sense of law and
order, something that it was the duty of the ruler and the State
to preserve, is dharma and abhaya — righteousness and absence
of fear. Law was something more than mere law, and order was
the fearlessness of the people. How much more desirable is this
idea of inculcating fearlessness than of enforcing ‘ order ’ on a
frightened populace I

We spent three and a half days in Calcutta and during this
period I addressed three public meetings. As I had done before
in Calcutta, I condemned and argued against terroristic acts,
and then I passed on to the methods that the Government had
adopted in Bengal. I spoke from a full heart, for I had been
greatly moved Dy accounts of occurrences in the province.
What pained me most was the manner in which human dignity
had been outraged by indiscriminate suppression of whole
populations. The political problem, urgent as it was, took second
place before this human problem. These three speeches of
mine formed the three counts against me in my subsequent
trial in Calcutta and my present sentence is due to them.

From Calcutta we went to Santiniketan to pay a visit to the
poet Rabindra Nath Tagore. It was always a joy to meet him
and, having come so near, we did not wish to miss him. I had
been to Santiniketan twice before. It was Kamala’s first visit,
and she had come especially to see the place a? we were think-
ing of sending our daughter there. Indira was going to appear
for her matriculation soon afterwards, and the problem of her
future education was troubling us. I was wholly against her
joining the regular official or semi-official universities, for I dis-
liked them. The whole atmosphere that envelops them is
official, oppressive and authoritarian. They have no doubt pro-
duced fine men and women in the past, and they will continue
to do so. But these few exceptions cannot save the universities

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

484

from the charge of suppressing and deadening the fine instincts
of youth. Santiniketan offered an escape from this dead hand,
and so we fixed upon it, although in some ways it was not so
up to date and well-equipped as the other universities.

On our way back we stopped at Patna to discuss with Rajen-
dra Babu the problem of earthquake relief. He had just been
discharged from prison and, inevitably, he had taken the lead
in unofficial relief work. Our arrival was unexpected, for none
of our telegrams had been delivered. The house where we
intended staying with Kamala's brother was in ruins; it was
a big double-storied brick structure. So, like many others, we
lived in the open.

The next day I paid a visit to Muzaffarpur. It was exactly seven
days after the earthquake and little had so far been done to
remove the debris, except from some of the main streets. As
these streets were cleaned corpses were being discovered, some in
curiously expressive attitudes, as if trying to ward off a falling
wall or roof. The ruins were an impressive and terrifying sight.
The survivors were thoroughly shaken-up and cowed by their
nerve-racking experiences.

Returning to Allahabad, collections of funds and materials
were immediately organised, and all of us, of the Congress or
out of it, took this up in earnest. Some of my colleagues were
of opinion that because of the earthquake the Independence
Day celebrations should be called off. But other colleagues and
1 saw no reason why even an earthquake should interfere with
our programme. So on the a6th January we had a large num-
ber of meetings in the villages of Allahabad district and a
meeting in the city, and we met with greater success than we
had anticipated. Most people expected police interference and
arrests, and on a minor scale there was some interference. But,
much to our surprise, we survived the meeting. In some of our
villages and in some other cities arrests were made.

Soon after returning from Behar I issued a statement about
the earthquake, ending up with an appeal for funds. In this
statement I criticised the inactivity of the Behar Government
during the first few days after the earthquake. It was not my
intention to criticise the officials in the earthquake areas, for
they had had to deal with a very difficult situation which would
have tried the stoutest nerves, and I was sorry that some of my
words were capable of this interpretation. But I did feel
strongly that the headquarters of the Behar Government had
not shown great competence to begin with, especially in the
matter of removal of debris, which might have saved lives.

EARTHQUAKE

485

Thousands of people were killed in Monghyr city alone, and
three weeks later 1 saw a vast quantity of debris still lying
untouched, although a few miles away at Jamalpur there was
a large colony of many thousands of railway workers, who
could have been utilised for this purpose within a few hours of
the catastrophe. Livingpeople were unearthed even twelve days
after the earthquake. The Government had taken immediate
steps to protect property, but they had not been so expeditious
in trying to rescue people who lay buried. The municipalities
in these areas were not functioning.

I think my criticism was justified, and I found later that the
great majority of people in the earthquake areas agreed with
it. But whether it was justified or not, it was honestly made,
not with the intention of blaming the Government, but of
speeding them up. No one accused them of any deliberate sins
of commission or omission in this respect. It was a novel and
overpowering situation and errors were excusable. The Behar
Government, so far as I know (for I have been in gaol), later on
worked with energy and competence to repair the ravages of
the earthquake.

But my criticism was resented, and soon afterwards a few
people in Behar came out with a general testimonial in favour
of the Government as a kind of counterblast. The earthquake
and its demands became almost a secondary matter. More im-
portant was the fact that the Government had been criticised,
and it must be defended by its loyal subjects. This was an
interesting instance of a widespread phenomenon in India —
the dislike of criticism of the Government, which is a common-
place in Western countries. It is the military mentality, which
cannot tolerate criticism. Like the King, the British Govern-
ment in India and all of its superior officials can do no wrong.
To hint at any such thing is Use majesti.

The curious part of it is that a charge of inefficiency and
incompetence is resented far more than an accusation of harsh
government or tyranny. The latter might indeed land the
person making it in prison, but the Government is used to it
and does not really mind it. After all, in a way, it might almost
be considered a compliment to an imperial race. But to be
called inefficient and wanting in nerve hurts, for this strikes at
the root of their self-esteem; it disturbs the messianic delusions
of the English officials in India. They are like the Anglican
bishop who was prepared to put up meekly with a charge of
unchristian behaviour, but who resented and hit out when
some one called him foolish and incompetent.

4 86 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

There is a general belief among Englishmen, frequently
asserted as if it was an incontrovertible maxim, that a change
of government in India, involving a reduction or elimination
of British influence, would result in a much worse and more
inefficient government. Holding this belief, but generous in
their enthusiasm, radicals and Englishmen of advanced views
plead that good government is no substitute for self-government,
and if Indians want to go to the dogs, they should be permitted
to do so. I do not know what will happen to India when British
influence is eliminated. Much depends on how the British
withdraw and who is in control in India then, and on a host
of other considerations, national and international. I can quite
conceive a state of affairs, established with the help of the
British, which will be more inefficient and generally worse than
anything that we can have to-day, for it will have all the vices
of the present system without its virtues. I can conceive more
readily still a different state of affairs which, from the point of
view of the Indian people, will be far more efficient and bene-
ficial than anything we have to-day. It is possible that the
coercive apparatus of the State may not be so efficient, and the
administrative apparatus not quite so shiny, but there will be
greater efficiency in production, consumption, and the activities
which go to raise the physical, the spiritual, and cultural stan-
dards of the masses. I believe that self-government is good for
any country. But I am not prepared to accept even self-
government at the cost of real good government. Self-govern-
ment if it is to justify itself must stand ultimately for better
government for the masses. It is because I believe that the
British Government in India, whatever its claims in the past
may have been, is incapable of providing good government and
rising standards for the masses to-day, that I feel that it has
outlived its utility, such as it was, m India. The only real
justification for Indian freedom is the promise of better govern-
ment, of a higher standard for the masses, of industrial and
cultural growth, and of the removal of the atmosphere of fear
and suppression that foreign imperialist rule invariably brings
in its train. The British Government and the I.C.S., though
they may be strong enough to impose their will on India, are
not efficient or competent enough to solve India’s problems of
to-day, and even less of the future, because their foundations
and assumption* are all wrong and they have lost touch with
reality. A government or ruling class which is not competent
enough, or which represents a passing order, cannot long con-
tinue even to impose their will.

EARTHQUAKE

487

The Allahabad Earthquake Relief Committee deputed me to
visit the areas affected by the earthquake and to report on the
methods of relief-work adopted there. I went immediately,
alone, and for ten days I wandered about those tom and ruined
territories. It was a very strenuous tour, and I had little sleep
during those days. From five in the morning till almost mid-
night we were up and about, motoring over the cracked and
crumpled-up roads, or going by little boats where the bridges had
collapsed and the roads were under water owing to a change in
level. The towns were impressive enough with their extensive
ruins, and their roads tom up and twisted sometimes as by a
giant hand, or raised high above the plinth of the houses on
either side. Out of huge cracks in these roads water and sand
had gushed out and swept away men and cattle. More even
than these towns, the plains of North Behar — the garden of
Behar, they used to be called — had desolation and destruction
stamped upon them. Mile upon mile of sand, and large sheets
of water, and huge cracks and vast numbers of little craters
out of which this sand and water had come. Some British
officers who flew over this area said that it bore some resem-
blance to the battlefields of northern France in war-time and
soon after.

It must have been a terrible experience. The earthquake
began with strong side-to-side movements which knocked down
any person who was standing. Then there were up-and-down
movements, and a vast rumbling and reverberating noise as of
an artillery bombardment or a hundred aeroplanes in the sky,
and waters gushed out in innumerable places out of huge
fissures and craters and rose to about ten or twelve feet. All
this probably lasted for three minutes or a little more and then
it died down, but those three minutes were terrible enough.
It is not surprising that many persons who saw this happen
imagined that this was the end of the world. In the cities there
was a noise of falling houses, and a rushing of waters, and an
atmosphere full of dust which made it impossible to see even
a few yards. In the rural areas there was not much dust and
one could see a little farther, but there were no calm-eyed
spectators about. Those who survived lay flat on the ground, or
rolled about, in an agony of terror.

A little boy of twelve was dug out (I think in Muzaffarpur)
alive ten days after the earthquake. He was greatly surprised.
He had imagined, when he was knocked down and imprisoned
by falling material, that the world had ended and he was the
solitary survivor.

488 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

In Muzzaffarpur also at the exact moment of the earthquake
when houses were collapsing and hundreds were dying all
round, a baby girl was bora. The inexperienced young parents
did not know what to do, and were distraught. I learnt, how-
ever, that both the mother and the baby survived and were
flourishing. In honour of the earthquake the baby was named
Kampo Devi.

The city of Monghyr was the last place in our tour. We had
wandered a good deal and gone almost up to the frontier of
Nepal, and we had seen many harrowing sights. We had
become used to ruins and destruction on a vast scale. And yet
when we saw Monghyr and the absolute destruction of this rich
city, we gasped and shivered at the horror of it. I can never
forget that terrible sight.

All over the earthquake areas there was a very painful absence
of self-help among the residents, both in the cities and villages.
Probably the middle classes in the cities were the worst offenders
in this respect. They all waited for somebody to take action
and help them, either the Government or the non-official relief
agencies. Others who offered their services thought that work
meant ordering people about. Part of this feeling of helpless-
ness was no doubt due to the nervous collapse brought about by
the terror of the earthquake, and it must have gradually
lessened.

In marked contrast with this was the energy and capacity
of the large numbers of relief workers who poured in from
other parts of Behar and other provinces. It was wonder-
ful to see the spirit of efficient service of these young men and
women and, in spite of the fact that a host of separate relief
organisations were working, there was a great deal of co-opera-
tion between them.

In Monghyr I indulged in a theatrical gesture to give a push
to the self-help movement for digging and removing the debris.
I did so with some hesitation, but it turned out to be a success.
All the leaders of the relief organisations went out with spades
and baskets and did a good day’s digging, and we brought out
the corpse of a little girl. I left Monghyr that day, but the
digging went on and many local people took it up with very
good results.

Of all the non-official relief organisations the Central Relief
Committee, of which Rajendra Prasad was the head, was far
the most important. This was by no means a purely Congress
organisation, and it developed into an all-India body repre-
senting various groups and the donors. It had, however, the

EARTHQUAKE

489

great advantage of having the Congress organisation in the
rural areas at its disposal. In no province in India, except
Gujrat and some districts of the United Provinces, were the
Congress workers more in touch with the peasants. In fact the
workers themselves came largely from the peasantry; Behar is
pre-eminently the peasant province of India and even its
middle classes are closely allied to the peasantry. Sometimes
when, as Congress Secretary, I went 10 inspect the Behar Pro-
vincial Congress Committee’s office, I criticised in vigorous
language what I considered was their inefficiency and general
slackness in keeping office. There was a tendency to sit rather
than stand, to lie down rather than sit. The office was one of
the barest I had seen, for they would try to carry on without
many of the usual office accessories. Yet, in spite of my
criticism of the office, I knew well that from the Congress point
of view the province was one of the most earnest and devoted
in the country. Congress made no show there, but it had the
solid backing of the peasantry. Even in the All-India Congress
Committee the Behar members seldom took up an aggressive
attitude in any matter. They seemed to be a little surprised at
finding themselves there. But in both the Civil Disobedience
movements Behar put up a splendid record. Even in the sub-
sequent individual civil disobedience, it did well.

The Relief Committee availed itself of this fine organisation
to reach the peasantry. In the rural areas no other agency, not
even the Government, could be so helpful. And the head of
both the Relief Committee and the Behar Congress organi-
sation was Rajendra Babu, the unquestioned leader of Behar.
Looking like a peasant, a typical son of the soil of Behar, he is
not impressive at first sight till one notices his keen frank eyes
and his earnest look. One does not forget that look or those
eyes, for through them truth looks at you and there is no
doubting them. Peasant-like, he is perhaps a little limited in
outlook, somewhat unsophisticated from the point of view of
the modem world, but his outstanding ability, his perfect
straightness, his energy, and his devotion to the cause of Indian
freedom are qualities which have made him loved not only in
his own province but throughout India. No one in any pro-
vince in India occupies quite that universally acknowledged
position of leadership as Rajendra Babu does in Behar. Few
others, if any, can be said to have imbibed more thoroughly
the real message of Gandhiji,

It was fortunate that a man like him was available for the
leadership of the relief-work in Behar, and it was faith in him

490 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

that drew a vast sum of money from all over India. Weak in
health, he threw himself into the work of relief. He over-
worked himself, for he became the centre of all activity and
everybody turned to him for advice.

During my tour in the earthquake areas, or just before going
there, I read with a great shock Gandhiji’s statement to the
effect that the earthquake had been a punishment for the sin
of untouchability. This was a staggering remark and I wel-
comed and wholly agreed with Rabindra Nath Tagore's answer
to it. Anything more opposed to the scientific outlook it would
be difficult to imagine. Ferhaps even science will not be abso-
lutely dogmatic to-day about the effect of emotional states and
psychic occurrences on matter. A mental shock may result in
indigestion or something worse to the person concerned. But
to suggest that a human custom or failing had its reactions on
the movements of the earth’s crust is an astounding thing. The
idea of sin and divine wrath and man’s relative importance in
the affairs of the universe — they take us back a few hun-
dred years, when the Inquisition flourished in Europe and
burned Giordano Bruno for his scientific heresy and sent many
a witch to the stake! Even in the eighteenth century in
America leading Boston divines attributed earthquakes in Mas-
sachusetts to the impiety of lightning rods.

And if the earthquake was a divine punishment for sin, how
are we to discover for which sin we are being punished? — for,
alas 1 we have many sins to atone for. Each person can have his
pet explanation; we may have been punished for submitting to
alien domination, or for putting up with an unjust social system.
The Maharaja of Durbhanga, the owner of enormous estates,
was, financially, one of the major sufferers from the earth-
quake. We might as well say that this was a judgment on the
zamindari system. That would be nearer the mark than to
suggest that the more or less innocent people of Behar were
being made to suffer vicariously for the sins of untouchability
of the people of South India. Why did not the earthquake visit
the land of untouchability itself? Or the British Government
might call the calamity a divine punishment for civil dis-
obedience, for, as a matter of fact, North Behar, which suffered
most from the earthquake, took a leading part in the freedom
movement.

We can go on speculating indefinitely in this manner. Arid
then, of course, the question arises why we should interfere
with the workings of Providence or try to lessen the effect of its
divine decrees by our humane -efforts. And we begin to wonder

EARTHQUAKE

49!

why Providence has played this cruel joke on us: to make us
full of imperfections, to surround us with snares and pitfalls, to
create a miserable and cruel world, to make the tiger and the
lamb, and then to punish us.

“ When the stars threw down their spears
And water’d heaven with their tears,

Dare he laugh his work to see?

Dare he who made the lamb make thee? ”

On my last night in Patna I sat up till very late with many
friends and comrades who had gathered there from various
provinces to offer their services for relief work. The U.P. was
well represented and some of our chosen men were there. We
discussed a problem that was troubling us: how far must we
allow ourselves to be involved in earthquake relief? That
meant, to that extent at least, a withdrawal from political work.
Relief work was very exacting and we could not take it up
casually. Absorption in it might well involve a long period of
absence from the active political sphere, and that was bound to
have a bad effect politically on our province. Although there
were many in the Congress fold, the people who make a differ-
ence were always limited in number and could ill be spared.
And yet the call of the earthquake could not be ignored. For
my part I had no intention of devoting myself exclusively to
relief work. I felt that there would be no lack of people for
that; there were few for more risky activities.

So we talked till far into the night. We discussed the last
Independence Day and how some of our colleagues had been
arrested then, while we had escaped. I told them laughingly
that I had discovered the secret of militant politics with perfect
safety.

I got back home in Allahabad on February nth, dead
tired after my tour. Ten strenuous days had made me look
ghastly and my people were surprised at my appearance. I tried
to begin writing my report of the tour for the Allahabad Relief
Committee, but sleep overcame me. I spent at least twelve hours
out of the next twenty-four in sleep.

Next day, in the late afternoon, Kamala and I had finished
tea and Purushottam Das Tandon had just then joined us. We
were standing in the veranda when a car drove up and a police
officer alighted. I knew immediately that my time had come. I
went up to him and said : “ Bahut ainbn sc ifka intazar tha ” —
* I have been waiting for you for a long time/’ He was a little

49> JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

apologetic and said that he was not to blame. The warrant was
from Calcutta.

Five months and thirteen days I had been out, and now I
went back again to seclusion and loneliness. But the real burden
was not mine; it had to be shouldered, as always, by the women
folk — by my ailing mother, my wife, my sister.

LIX

ALIPORE GAOL

Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like the thisde-ball, no bar,

Onward wherever light winds blow,

Fixed by no friendly star?

Robert Browning

That very night I was taken to Calcutta. From Howrah station
a huge black Maria carried me to Lai Bazaar Police Station.
I had read much of this famous headquarters of the Calcutta
police and I looked round with interest. There were large
numbers of European sergeants and inspectors to be seen, far
more than would have been in evidence in any police head-
quarters in Northern India. The constables seemed to be almost
all from Behar or the eastern districts of the U.P. During the
many journeys I made in the big prison lorry, to court and back
or from one prison to another, a number of these constables
used to accompany me inside. They looked thoroughly un-
happy, disliking their job, and obviously full of sympathy for
me. Sometimes their eyes glistened with tears.

I was kept in the Presidency Gaol to begin with, and from
there I was taken for my trial to the Chief Presidency Magis-
trate’s court. This was a novel experience. The court-room and
building had more the appearance of a besieged fortress than
of an open court. Except for a few newspaper men and the
usual lawyers, no outsiders were allowed anywhere in the neigh-
bourhood. The police was present in some force. These arrange-
ments apparently had not been made especially for me; that was
the daily routine. When I was taken to the court-room I had to
march through a long passage (inside the room) which was
closely wired on top and at the side. It was like going through a
cage. The dock was far from the magistrate’s seat. The court-
room was crowded with policemen and black-coated and gowned
lawyers.

I was used enough to court trials. Many of my previous trials
had taken place in gaol precincts. But there had always been
some friends, relatives, familiar faces about, and the whole
atmosphere had been a little easier. The police had usually

493

494 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

kept in the background and there had never been any cage-like
structures about. Here it was very different, and I gazed at
strange, unfamiliar faces between whom and me there was
nothing in common. It was not an attractive crowd. I am
afraid eowned lawyers en masse are not beautiful to look at,
and police-court lawyers seem to develop a peculiarly unlovely
look. At last I managed to spot one familiar lawyer’s face in
that black array, but he was lost in that crowd.

I felt very lonely and isolated even when I sat on the balcony
outside before the trial began. My pulse must have quickened
a little, and inwardly I was not quite so composed as I usually
had been during my previous trials. It struck me then that if
even I, with so much experience of trials and convictions, could
react abnormally to that situation, how much more must young
and inexperienced people feel the tension?

I felt much better in the dock itself. There was, as usual, no
defence offered, and I read out a brief statement. The next
day, February 16th, I was sentenced to two years. My seventh
term of imprisonment had begun.

I looked back with some satisfaction to my five and a half
months’ stay outside. That time had been fairly well occupied,
and I had managed to get through some useful jobs. My
mother had turned the comer and was out of immediate
danger. My younger sister, Krishna, had married. My daugh-
ter’s future education had been fixed up. I had straightened
out some of my domestic and financial tangles. Many personal
matters that I had been long neglecting had been attended to.
In the field of public affairs I knew that no one could do much
then. I had at least helped a little in stiffening up the Congress
attitude and in directing it to some extent towards social and
economic ways of thinking. My Poona correspondence with
Gandhiji, and later my articles in the Press, had made a differ-
ence. My articles on the communal question had also done
some good. And then I had met Gandhiji again after more
than two years, and many other friends and comrades, and had
charged myself with nervous and emotional energy for another
period.

One shadow remained to darken my mind — Kamala’s ill-
health. I had no notion then how very ill she was, for she has a
habit of carrying on till she collapses. But I was worried. And
yet I hoped that now I was in prison she would be free to devote
herself to her treatment. It was more difficult to do so whilst I
was. out and she was not willing to leave me for long.

I had one other regret. 1 was sorry that I had not visited

ALIPORE GAOL

495

even once the rural areas of Allahabad district. Many of my
young colleagues had recently been arrested there for carrying
out our instructions, and it seemed almost like disloyalty to
them not to follow them in the district.

Again the black Maria carried me back to prison. On our
way we passed plenty of troops on the march with machine-
guns, armoured cars, etc. I peeped at them through the tiny
openings of our prison van. How ugly an armoured car is, I
thought, and a tank. They reminded me of prehistoric monsters
— the dinosaurs and the like.

I was transferred from the Presidency Gaol to the Alipore
Central Gaol, and there I was given a little cell, about ten feet
by nine. In front of it was a veranda and a small open yard.
The wall enclosing the yard was a low one, about seven feet,
and looking over it a strange sight confronted me. All manner
of odd buildings — single storey, double storey, round, rectangu-
lar, curious roofings — rose all round, some over-topping the
others. It seemed that the structures had grown one by one,
being fitted in anyhow to take advantage of all the available
space. Almost it looked like a jig-saw puzzle or a futurist
attempt at the fantastic. And yet I was told that all the build-
ings had been arranged very methodically with a tower in the
centre (which was a church for the Christian prisoners) and
radiating lines. Being a city gaol, the area was limited and
every little bit of it had to be utilised.

I had hardly recovered from my first view of the seemingly
fantastic structures around me when a terrifying sight greeted
me. Two chimneys, right in front of my cell and yard, were
belching forth dense volumes of black smoke, and sometimes
the wind blew this smoke in my direction, almost suffocating
me. They were the chimneys of the gaol kitchens. I suggested
to the Superintendent later that gas-masks might be provided
to meet this offensive.

It was not an agreeable start, and the future was not inviting
— to enjoy the unchanging prospect of the red-brick structures
of Alipore Gaol and to swallow and inhale the smoke of its
kitchen chimneys. There were no trees or greenery in my yard.
It was all paved and puca and clean, except for the daily
deposit of smoke, but it was also bare and cheerless. I could
just see the tops of one or two trees in adjoining yards. They
were barren of leaf or flower when I arrived. But gradually a
mysterious change came over them and little bits of green
were peeping out all over their branches. The leaves were
coming out of the buds: they grew rapidly and covered the

496 JAWAHARLAL NCHRU

nakedness of the branches with their pleasant green. It was a
delightful change which made even Alipore Gaol look gay and
cheerful.

In one of these trees was a kite’s nest which interested me,
and I watched it often. The little ones were growing and learn-
ing the tricks of the trade, and sometimes they would swoop
down with rapidity and amazing accuracy and snatch the bread
out of a prisoner’s hand, almost out of his mouth.

From sunset to sunrise (more or less) we were locked up in
our cells, and the long winter evenings were not very easy to
pass. I grew tired of reading or writing hour after hour, and
would start walking up and down that little cell — four or five
short steps forward and then back again. I remembered the
bears at the zoo tramping up and down their cages. Some-
times when I felt particularly bored I took to my favourite
remedy, the shtrshasana — standing on the head I

The early part of the night was fairly quiet, and city sounds
used to float in — the noise of the trams, a gramophone, or some
one singing in the distance. It was pleasant to hear this faint
and distant music. But there was not much peace at night, for
the guards on duty tramped up and down, and every hour
there was some kind of an inspection. Some officer came round
with a lantern to make sure that none of us had escaped. At
3 a.m. every day, or rather night, there was a tremendous din,
and a mighty sound of scraping and scrubbing. The kitchens
had begun functioning.

There were vast numbers of warders and guards and officers
and clerks in the Alipore Gaol, as also in the Presidency. Both
these prisons housed a population about equal to that of Naini
Prison — 2200 to 2300 — but the staff in each must have been
more than double that of Naini. There were many European
warders and retired Indian Army officers. It was evident that
the British Empire functioned more intensively and more ex-
pensively in Calcutta than in the U.P, A sign and a perpetual
reminder of the might of the Empire was the cry that prisoners
had to shout out when high officials approached them. " Sarkar
Salaam ” was the cry, lengthened out, and it was accompanied
by certain physical movements of the body. The voices of the
prisoners shouting out this cry came to me many times a day
over my yard wall, and especially when the Superintendent
patted by daily. I could just see over my seven-foot wall the top
of the huge State umbrella under which the Superintendent
marched.

Was this extraordinary cry— sarkar salaam — and the move-

ALIPORE GAOL

497

ments that went with it relics of old times, I wondered; or were
they the invention of some inspired English official? I do not
know, but I imagine that it was an English invention. It has a
typical Anglo-Indian sound about it. Fortunately this cry does
not prevail in the U.P. gaols or probably in any other province
besic les Bengal and Assam. The way this enforced salutation to
the might of the sarkar is shouted out seemed to me very
degrading.

One change for the better I noticed with pleasure in Alipore.
The food of the ordinary prisoners was far superior to the U.P.
prison food. In regard to gaol diet the U.P. compares unfavour-
ably with many provinces.

The brief winter was soon over, and spring raced by and
summer began. It grew hotter day by day. I had never been
fond of the Calcutta climate, and even a few days of it had
made me stale and flat. In prison conditions were naturally far
worse, and I did not prosper as the days went by. Lack of space
for exercise and long lock-up hours in that climate probably
affected my health a little and I lost weight rapidly. How I
began to hate all locks and bolts and bars and walls!

After a month in Alipore I was allowed to take some exercise,
outside my yard. This was an agreeable change and I could
walk up and down under the main wall, morning and evening.
Gradually I got accustomed to Alipore Gaol and the Calcutta
climate; and even the kitchen, with its smoke and mighty din,
became a tolerable nuisance. Other matters occupied my mind,
other worries filled me. News from outside was not good.

LX

DEMOCRACY IN EAST AND WEST

I was surprised to find in Alipore that no daily paper would be
allowed to me after my conviction. As an under-trial prisoner I
received the daily Statesman , of Calcutta, but this was stopped
the day after my trial was over. In the U.P., ever since 193a, a
daily (chosen by the Government) was permitted to A Class or
first division prisoners. So also in most other provinces, and I
was fully under the impression that the same rule was appli-
cable in Bengal. Instead of the daily, however, I was supplied
with the weekly Statesman . This was evidently meant for retired
English officials or business men who had gone back to
England, and it contained a summary of Indian news likely to
interest them. No foreign news at all was given and I missed it
very much, as I used to follow it closely. Fortunately I was
allowed to have the Manchester Guardian Weekly , and this kept
me in touch with Europe and international affairs.

My arrest and trial in February coincided with upheavals
and bitter conflicts in Europe. There was the ferment in
France resulting in Fascist riots and the formation of a
‘ National * Government. And, far worse, in Austria Chancellor
Dolfiiss was shooting down workers and putting an end to the
great edifice of social democracy there. The news of the Aus-
trian bloodshed depressed me greatly. What an awful and
bloody place this world was and how barbarous was man when
he wanted to protect his vested interests ! All over Europe and
America Fascism seemed to be advancing. When Hitler came
into power in Germany I had imagined that his regime could
not possibly last long, as he was offering no solution of Ger-
many’s economic troubles. So also, as Fascism spread elsewhere,
I consoled myself that it represented the last ditch of reaction.
After it must come the breaking of the shackles. But I began
to wonder if my wish was not father to my thought. Was it so
obvious that this Fascist wave would retire so easily or so
quickly? And even if conditions became intolerable for the
Fascist dictatorships, would they not rather hurl their countries
into devastating war rather than give in? What would be the
result of such a conflict?

Meanwhile, Fascism of various kinds and shapes spread.
Spain, that new * Republic of Honest Men ’ — los hombres

49*

DEMOCRACY IN EA8T AND WEST

499

honrados — the very Manchester Guardian of governments, as
some one called it, had gone far back and deep into reaction.
All the fine phrases of its honest Liberal leaders had not kept
it from sliding down. Everywhere Liberalism showed its utter
ineffectiveness to face modem conditions. It dung to words and
phrases, and thought that they could take the place of action.
When a crisis came it simply faded off like the end of a film
that is over.

I read the leading articles of the Manchester Guardian on the
Austrian tragedy with deep interest and appreciation. "And
what sort of Austria emerges from this bloody struggle? An
Austria ruled with rifles and machine-guns by the most reac-
tionary clique in Europe." "But why, if England stands for
liberty, has its Prime Minister so little to say? We have heard
his praises of dictatorships : we have heard him say how they
‘ make the soul of a nation live ’ and ‘ bestow a new vision and
a new energy.’ But a Prime Minister of England should have
something to say of the tyrannies, in whatever country, which
kill often the body, but more often, and with a worse death, the
soul.”

And why, if the Manchester Guardian stands for liberty, has
it so little to say when liberty is crushed in India? We also
have known not only bodily suffering, but that far worse ordeal
of the soul.

"Austrian democracy has been destroyed, although to its
everlasting glory it went down fighting and so created a legend
that may re-kindle the spirit of European freedom some day in
years to come.”

“ The Europe that is unfree has ceased to breathe; there is no
flow or counterflow of healthy spirits; a gradual suffocation has
set in, and only some violent convulsion or inner paroxysm
and a striking out to the right and left can avert the mental
coma that is approaching. . . . Europe from the Rhine to the
Urals is one great prison.”

Moving passages which found an echo in my heart. But I
wondered : what of India? How can it be that, die Manchester
Guardian or the many lovers of freedom who undoubtedly exist
in England should be so oblivious to our fate? How can they
miss seeing here what they condemn with such fervour else-
where? It was a great English Liberal leader, trained in the
nineteenth-century tradition, cautious by temperament, res-
trained in his language, who said twenty years ago, on the eve
of the Great War : “ Sooner than be a silent witness of the
tragic triumph of force over law, I would see this country of

500 JAWAttARLAL NEHRU

ours blotted out of the page of history.” A brave thought,
eloquently put, and the gallant youth of Englahd went in their
millions to vindicate it. But if an Indian ventures to make a
statement similar to Mr. Asquith’s, what fate is his?

National psychology is a complicated affair. Most of us
imagine how fair and impartial we are; it is always the other
fellow, the other country that is wrong. Somewhere at the back
of our minds we are convinced that we are not as others are:
there is a difference which good breeding usually prevents us
from emphasising. And if we are fortunate enough to be an
imperial race controlling the destinies of other countries, it is
difficult not to believe that all is for the best in this best of all
possible worlds, and those who agitate for change are self-
seekers or deluded fools, ungrateful for the benefits they have
received from us.

The British are an insular race, and long success and pros-
perity has made them look down on almost all others. For
them, as some one has said, “ les negres commencent a Calais ”.
But that is too general a statement. Perhaps the British upper-
class division of the world would be somewhat as follows: (i)
Britain — a long gap, and then (2) the British Dominions (white
populations only) and America (Anglo-Saxons only, and not
dagoes, wops, etc.), (3) Western Europe, (4) Rest of Europe, (5)
South America (Latin races), a long gap, and then (6) the brown,
yellow and black races of Asia and Africa, all bunched up more
or less together.

How far we of the last of these classes are from the heights
where our rulers live! Is it any wonder that their vision grows
dim when they look towards us, and that we should irritate
them when we talk of democracy and liberty? These words
were not coined for our use. Was it not a great Liberal states-
man, John Morley, who had declared that he could not conceive
of democratic institutions in India even in the far, dim future?
Democracy for India was, like Canada’s fur coat, unsuited to her
climate. And, later on, Britain’s Labour Party, the standard-
bearers of Socialism, the champions of the under-dog, presented
us, in the flush of their triumph, with a revival of the Bengal
Ordinance in 1924, and during their second government our
fate was even worse. I am quite sure that none of them mean
us ill, and when they address us in their best pulpit manner —
4 Dearly beloved brethren ’ — they feel a glow of conscious virtue.
But,’ to them, we are not as they are and must be judged by
other standards. It is difficult enough for an Englishman and a
Frenchman to think alike because of linguistic and cultural

DEMOCRACY IN EAST AND WEST 501

differences; how much vaster must be the difference between an
Englishman and an Asiatic?

Recently the House of Lords has been debating the question
of Indian reform, and many illuminating speeches were de-
livered by noble lords. Among these was one by Lord Lytton, a
former Governor of an Indian Province, who acted as Viceroy
for a while. He has often been referred to as a liberal and sym-
pathetic Governor. He is reported to have said 1 that “the
Government of India was far more representative of India as a
whole than the Congress politicians. The Government of India
was able to speak in the name of officials, the Army, the Police,
the Princes, the fighting regiments and both Moslems and
Hindus, whereas the Congress politicians could not even speak
on behalf of one of the great Indian communities.” He went
on to make his meaning quite clear : “ When I speak of Indian
opinion I am thinking of those on whose co-operation I had to
rely and on whose co-operation the future Governors and Vice-
roys will have to rely.”

Two interesting points emerge from his speech : the India that
counts means those who help the British; and the British
Government of India is the most representative and, therefore,
democratic body in the country. That this argument should be
advanced seriously shows that English words seem to change
their meanings when they cross the Suez Canal. The next and
obvious step in reasoning would be, that autocratic government
is the most representative and democratic form because the
King represents everybody. We get back to the divine right of
kings and “ I’d tat, c’dst moi! ”

As a matter of fact, even pure autocracy has had a distin-
guished advocate recently. Sir Malcolm Hailey, that ornament
of the Indian Civil Service, speaking as Governor of the United
Provinces at Benares on November 5, 1934, pleaded for auto-
cracy in the Indian States. The advice was hardly needed, for
no Indian State is at all likely to part with autocracy of its own
free will. An interesting development has been the attempt to
preserve this autocracy on the plea that democracy is failing in
Europe. Sir Mirza Ismail, the Dewan of Mysore, has expressed
his "surprise that radical reforms are advocated when parlia-
mentary democracy is decaying everywhere.” “I am sure the
conscience of the State feels that our present constitution is
quite democratic enough for all practical purposes.” * The ‘ con-
science ’ of Mysore presumably is a metaphysical abstraction for

1 House of Lords, December 17, 1934.

2 Mysore: June 21, 1934. See also note on page 530, post.

JO!

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

the Ruler and his Dewan. The democracy that prevails in
Mysore at present is indistinguishable from autocracy.

if democracy is not suited to India, it appears to be equally
unsuitable for Egypt. I have just read a long despatch from
Cairo in the Statesman 1 (for this daily is supplied to me now in
my present gaol). We are told that the Premier, Nessim Pasha,
" has now aroused no little alarm in responsible-minded quarters
owing to his declaration that he hoped to get the political parties
to co-operate, especially the Wafd, and either to have a national
conference or elections for a constituent assembly, in either case
for the elaboration of a new Constitution. This can only mean
in the end ... a return to the regime of the popular democratic
government which history shows has always been disastrous for
Egypt, since in the past it has ever pandered to the worst
passions of the mob. . . . No one knowing anything of the inner
working of Egyptian politics and of the people, doubts for one
moment that elections will again result in the return of the
Wafd with a majority. Unless something is done, therefore, to
prevent this procedure, we shall within a short time be again
saddled with an ultra-democratic anti-foreign revolutionary
regime.”

It is suggested that the elections should be “ run ” by adminis-
trative pressure “as a counterpoise to the Wafd,” but, un-

happily, the Premier has too much the legal mind to do any
such thing. The only other course that remains, we are told, is
for Whitehall to intervene and to “ let it be known that it will

not tolerate the return of a regime ” of this kind.

What steps Whitehall may or may not take, or what will
happen in Egypt I do not know. 1 But this argument put for-
ward by presumably a liberty-loving Englishman does help us
to understand a little, some of the complexities of the Egyptian
and Indian situation. As the Statesman points out in a leading
article: “ The root evil has been that the way of life and atti-
tude of mind of an ordinary Egyptian voter are inharmonious
with the sort of way of life and attitude of mind out of which
democracy is developed.” This want of harmony is illustrated
further on : “In 'Europe, democracies have often been brought
down because there were too many parties; in Egypt the diffi-
culty has-been there only being one party, the Wafa.”

In India we are told that our communal divisions come in the

way of our democratic progress and, therefore, with incontro-
1 December 19, 1934.

1 There were widespread political riots in Egypt against the
British occupation in November 1935.

DEMOCRACY IN EAST AND WEST 503

vertible logic, those divisions are perpetuated. We are further
told that we are not united enough. In Egypt there are no com-
munal divisions and it appears that the most perfect political
unity prevails. And yet, this very unity becomes an obstacle in
the way of democracy and freedom! Truly the path of demo-
cracy is straight and narrow. Democracy for an Eastern country
seems to mean only one thing : to carry out the behests of the
imperialist ruling power and not to touch any of its interests.
Subject to that proviso, democratic freedom can flourish un-
checked.

LXI

DESOLATION

" And I yearn to lay my head

Where the grass is cool and sweet.

Mother, all the dreams are fled
From the tired child at thy feet.”

April came. Rumours reached me in my cell in Alipore of
happenings outside, rumours that were unpleasant and disturb-
ing. The Superintendent of the gaol informed me casually one
day that Mr. Gandhi had withdrawn Civil Disobedience. I
knew no more. The news was not welcome, and I felt sad at
this winding-up of something that had meant so much to me
for many years. And yet I reasoned with myself that the end
was bound to come. I knew in my heart that some time or other
Civil Disobedience would have to be wound up, for the time
being ac least. Individuals may hold out almost indefinitely,
regardless of the consequences, but national organisations do
not behave in this manner. I had no doubt that Gandhiji had
interpreted correctly the mind of the country and of the great
majority of Congressmen, and I tried to reconcile myself to the
new development, unpleasant as it was.

I heard also vaguely of the new move to revive the old Swaraj
Party in order to enter the legislatures. That too seemed inevit-
able, and I had long been of opinion that the Congress could
not keep aloof from future elections. During the five months
of my freedom outside prison I had tried to discourage this
tendency, for I thought it premature and likely to divert atten-
tion both from direct action and from the development of new
ideas of social change which were fermenting in the Congress
ranks. The longer the crisis continued, I thought, the more
would these ideas spread among our masses and intelligentsia
and the realities underlying our political and economic situa-
tion be laid bare. As Lenin has said somewhere: “Any and
every political crisis is useful because it brings to the light what
was hidden, reveals the actual forces involved in politics; it
exposes lies and deceptive phrases and fictions; it demonstrates
comprehensively the facts, and forces on the people the under-
standing of what is the reality.” I had hoped that this process
would result in making the Congress a clearer-minded and a

504

DESOLATION

505

more compact body with a definite goal. Probably some of
its weaker elements might drop out. That would oe no loss.
And when the time came for the ending of even theoretical
direct action and a reversion to so-called constitutional and
legal methods, the advanced and really active wing of the Con-
gress would utilise even these methods from the larger point
of view of our final objective.

That time apparently had come. But to my dismay I found
that the people who had been the backbone of Civil Dis-
obedience and effective work in the Congress were receding into
the background, and others, who had taken no such part, were
taking command.

Some days later the weekly Statesman came to me, and I read
in it the statement which Gandhiji had issued when withdraw-
ing Civil Disobedience. I read it with amazement and sinking
of heart. Again and again I read it, and Civil Disobedience ana
much else vanished from my mind and other doubts and con-
flicts filled it. “This statement,” wrote Gandhiji, “owes its
inspiration to a personal chat with the inmates and associates
of the Satyagraha Ashram. . . . More especially is it due to a
revealing information I got in the course of a conversation
about a valued companion of long standing who was found
reluctant to perform the full prison task, preferring his private
studies to the allotted task. This was undoubtedly contrary
to the rules of Satyagraha. More than the imperfection of
the friend whom I love, more than ever it brought home to me
my own imperfections. The friend said he had thought that
I was aware of his weakness. I was blind. Blindness in a
leader is unpardonable. I saw at once that I must for the
time being remain the sole representative of civil resistance in
action/’

The imperfection or fault, if such it was, of the ‘ friend ' was
a very trivial affair. I confess that I have often been guilty of it
and I am wholly unrepentant. But even if it was a serious
matter, was a vast national movement involving scores of thou-
sands directly and millions indirectly to be thrown out of gear
because an individual had erred? This seemed to me a mon-
strous proposition and an immoral one. I cannot presume to
speak of what is and what is not Satyagraha, but in my own
little way I have endeavoured to follow certain standards of
conduct, and all those standards were shocked and upset by
this statement of Gandhiji’s. I knew that Gandhiji usually acts
on instinct (I prefer to call it that than the ' inner voice ’ or an
answer to prayer), and very often that instinct is right. He has

jo6 jawaharlal nehru

repeatedly shown what a wonderful knack he has of sensing the
mass mind and of acting at the psychological moment. The
reasons which he afterwards adduces to justify his action are
usually afterthoughts and seldom carry one very far. A leader
or a man of action in a crisis almost always acts subconsciously
and then thinks of the reasons for his action. I felt also that
Gandhiji had acted rightly in suspending civil resistance. But
the reason he had given seemed to me an insult to intelligence
and an amazing performance for a leader of a national move-
ment. He was perfectly entitled to treat his ashram inmates
in any manner he liked; they had taken all kinds of pledges
and accepted a certain regime. But the Congress had not done
so; I had not done so. Why should we be tossed hither and
thither for, what seemed to me, metaphysical and mystical
reasons in which I was not interested? Was it conceivable to
have any political movement on this basis? I had willingly
accepted the moral aspect of Satyagraha as I understood it
(within certain limits I admit). That basic aspect appealed
to me and it seemed to raise politics to a higher and nobler
level. I was prepared to agree that the end does not justify all
kinds of means. But this new development or interpretation
was something much more far-reaching and it held forth some
possibilities which frightened me.

The whole statement frightened and oppressed me tremen-
dously. And then finally the advice he gave to Congressmen
was that “ they must learn the art and beauty of self-denial
and voluntary poverty. They must engage themselves in
nation-building activities, the spread of khaddar through per-
sonal hand-spinning and hana-weaving, the spread of com-
munal unity of hearts by irreproachable personal conduct
towards one another in every walk of life, the banishing of
untouchability in every shape or form in one’s own person, the
spread of total abstinence from intoxicating drinks and drugs
by personal contact with individual addicts and generally by
cultivating personal purity. These are services which provide
maintenance on the poor man’s scale. Those for whom the
poor man’s scale is not feasible should find a place in small
unorganised industries of national importance which give a
better wage>"

This Was the political programme that we were to' follow. A
vast distance seemed to separate him from me. With a stab
of pain I felt that the chords of allegiance that had bound me
to him for many years had snapped. For long a mental tussle
had been going on within me. I had not understood or ap-

DESOLATION

SO 7

predated much that Gandhiji had done. His fasts and his con-
centration on other issues during the continuance of Civil
Disobedience, when his comrades were in the grip of the
struggle, his personal and self-created entanglements, which led
him to the extraordinary position that, while out of prison, he
was yet pledged to himself not to take part in the political
movement, his new loyalties and pledges which put in the
shade the old loyalty and pledge and job, undertaken together
with many colleagues, while yet that job was unfinished, had
all oppressed me. During my short period out of prison I had
felt these and other differences more than ever. Gandhiji had
stated that there were temperamental differences between us.
They were perhaps more than temperamental, and I realised
that I held clear and definite views about many matters which
were opposed to his. And yet in the past I had tried to sub-
ordinate them, as far as I could, to what I conceived to be the
larger loyalty — the cause of national freedom for which the
Congress seemed to be working. I tried to be loyal and faithful
to my leader and my colleagues, for in my spiritual make-up
loyalty to a cause and to one’s colleagues holds a high place.
I fought many a battle within myself when I felt that I was
being dragged away from the anchor of my spiritual faith.
Somehow lmanaged to compromise. Perhaps I did wrong, for
it can never be right for any one to let go of that anchor. But
in the conflict of ideals I clung to my loyalty to my colleagues,
and hoped that the rush of events and the development of our
struggle might dissolve the difficulties that troubled me and
bring my colleagues nearer to my view-point.

And now? Suddenly I felt very lonely in that cell of Alipore
Gaol. Life seemed to be a dreary affair, a very wilderness of
desolation. Of the many hard lessons that I had leamt, the
hardest and the most painful now faced me: that it is not
possible in any vital matter to rely on any one. One must
journey through life alone; to rely on others is to invite heart-

Some of my accumulated irritation turned to religion and
the religious outlook. What an enemy this was to clearness of
thought and fixity of purpose, I thought; for was it not based
on emotion and passion? Presuming to be spiritual, how for
removed it was from real spirituality and things of the spirit.
Thinking in terms of some other world, it had little conception
of human values and social values and social justice. With its
preconceived notions it deliberately shut its eyes to reality for
fear that this might not fit in with them. It based itself on

508 jawaharlal nehru

truth, and yet so sure was it of having discovered it, and the
whole of it, that it did not take the trouble to search for it; all
that concerned it was to tell others of it. The will to truth was
not the same thing as the will to believe. It talked of peace and
yet supported systems and organisations that could not exist
Dut for violence. It condemned the violence of the sword, but
what of the violence that comes quietly and often in peaceful
garb and starves and kills; or worse still, without doing any
outward physical injury, outrages the mind and crushes the
spirit and breaks the heart?

And then I thought of him again who was the cause of this
commotion within me. What a wonderful man was Gandhiji
after all, with his amazing and almost irresistible charm and
subtle power over people. His writings and his sayings conveyed
little enough impression of the man behind; his personality was
far bigger than they would lead one to think. And his services
to India, how vast they had been. He had instilled courage and
manhood in her people, and discipline and endurance, and the
power of joyful sacrifice for a cause, and, with all his humility,
pride. Courage is the one sure foundation of character, he had
said, without courage there is no morality, no religion, no love.
“One cannot follow truth or love so long as one is subject to
fear.” With all his horror of violence, he had told us that
“ cowardice is a thing even more hateful than violence ”. And
“ discipline is the pledge and guarantee that a man means busi-
ness. There is no deliverance and no hope without sacrifice,
discipline, and self-control. Mere sacrifice without discipline will
be unavailing.” Words only and pious phrases perhaps, rather
platitudinous, but there was power behind the words,.and India
knew that this little man meant business.

He came to represent India to an amazing degree and to ex-
press the very spirit of that ancient and tortured land. Almost
he was India, and his very failings were Indian failings. A slight
to him was hardly a personal matter, it was an insult to the
nation; and Viceroys and others who indulged in these dis-
dainful gestures little realised what a dangerous crop they were
sowing. I remember how hurt I was when I first learnt that the
Pope had refused an interview to Gandhiji when he was return-
ing from the Round Table Conference in December 1931. That
refusal seemed to me an affront to India, and there can be no
doubt that the refusal was intentional, though the affront was
probably not thought of. The Catholic Church does not ap-

g rove of saints or mahatmas outside its fold, and because some
rotestant churchmen had called Gandhiji a great man of

DESOLATION

509

religion and a real Christian, it became all the more necessary
for Rome to dissociate itself from this heresy.

Just about that time in Alipore Gaol, in April 1934, I read
Bernard Shaw’s new plays, and the preface to On the Rocks ,
with its debate between Christ and Pilate, fascinated me. It
seemed to have a modem significance, when another empire
faced another man of religion. “I say to you,” Jesus says to
Pilate in this preface, “ cast out fear. Speak no more vain things
to me about the greatness of Rome. The greatness of Rome,
as you call it, is nothing but fear; fear of the past and fear
of the future, fear of the poor, fear of the rich, fear of the
High Priests, fear of the Jews and Greeks, who are learned,
fear of the Gauls and Goths and Huns, who are barbarians,
fear of the Carthage you destroyed to save you from fear of it,
and now fear worse than ever, fear of Imperial Caesar, the idol
you have yourself created, and fear of me, the penniless vag-
rant, buffeted and mocked, fear of everything except the rule
of God; faith in nothing but blood and iron and gold. You,
standing for Rome, are the universal coward; I, standing for the
Kingdom of God, have braved everything, lost everything, and
won an eternal crown.”

But Gandhiji’s greatness or his services to India or the tre-
mendous debt I personally owed to him were not in question.
In spite of all that, he might be hopelessly in the wrong in
many matters. What, after all, was he aiming at? In spite of
the closest association with him for many years I am not clear
in my own mind about his objective. I doubt if he is clear
himself. One step enough for me, he says, and he does not
try to peep into the future or to have a clearly conceived end
before him. Look after the means and the end will take care
of itself, he is never tired of repeating. Be good in your per-
sonal individual lives and all else will follow. That is not a
political or scientific attitude, nor is it perhaps even an ethical
attitude. It is narrowly moralist, and it begs the question : What
is goodness? Is it merely an individual affair or a social affair?
Gandhiji lays all stress on character and attaches little impor-
tance to intellectual training and development. Intellect without
character is likely to be dangerous, but what is character with-
out intellect? How, indeed, does character develop? Gandhiji
has been compared to the medieval Christain saints, and much
that he says seems to fit in with this. It does not fit in at all
with modem psychological experience and method.

But however this may be, vagueness in an objective seems
to me deplorable. Action to be effective must be directed to

510 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

clearly conceived ends. Life is not all logic, and those ends will
have to be varied from time to time to fit in with it, but some
end must always be clearly envisaged.

I imagine that Gandhiji is not so vague about the objective
as he sometimes appears to be. He is passionately desirous of
going in a certain direction, but this is wholly at variance with
modem ideas and conditions, and he has so far been unable to
fit the two, or to chalk out all the intermediate steps leading
to his goal. Hence, the appearance of vagueness and avoidance
of clarity. But his general inclination has been clear enough
for a quarter of a century, ever since he started formulating
his philosophy in South Africa. I do not know if those early
writings still represent his views. I doubt if they do so in their
entirety, but they do help us to understand the background of
his thought.

“ India's salvation consists,” he wrote in 1909, “in unlearning
what she has learnt during the last fifty years. The railways,
telegraphs, hospitals, lawyers, doctors, and such-like have all to
go; and the so-called upper classes have to learn consciously,
religiously, and deliberately the simple peasant life, knowing
it to be a life giving true happiness.” And again : “ Every time
I get into a railway car or use a motor-bus I know that I am
doing violence to my sense of what is right”; “to attempt to
reform the world by means of highly artificial and speedy
locomotion is to attempt the impossible.”

All this seems to me utterly wrong and harmful doctrine, and
impossible of achievement. Behind it lies Gandhiji’s love and
praise of poverty and suffering and the ascetic life. For him
progress and civilisation consist not in the multiplication of
wants, of higher standards of living, “but in the deliberate
and voluntary restriction of wants, which promotes real happi-
ness and contentment, and increases the capacity for service.”
If these premises are once accepted it becomes easy to follow
the rest of Gandhiji's thought and to have a better under-
standing of his activities. But most of us do not accept those
premises and yet we complain later on when we find that his
activities are not to our liking.

Personally I dislike the praise of poverty and suffering. I do
not think they are at all desirable, and they ought to be
abolished, Nor do I appreciate the ascetic life as a social ideal,
though it may suit individuals. I understand and appreciate
simplicity, equality, self-control, but not the mortification of
the flesh. Just as an athlete requires to train his body, I
believe that the mind and habits have also to be trained and

DESOLATION

J«1

brought under control. It would be absurd to expect that a
person who is given to too much self-indulgence can endure
much suffering or show unusual self-control or behave like a
hero when the crisis comes. To be in good moral condition
requires at least as much training as to be in good physical
condition. But that certainly does not mean asceticism or self-
mortification.

Nor do I appreciate in the least the i iealisation of the 'simple
peasant life . I have almost a horror of it, and instead of
submitting to it myself I want to drag out even the peasantry
from it, not to urbanisation, but to the spread of urban cultural
facilities to rural areas. Far from this life giving me true happi-
ness, it would be almost as bad as imprisonment for me. What
is there in the “ Man with the Hoe ” to idealise over? Crushed
and exploited for innumerable generations he is only little
removed from the animals who keep him company.

“ Who made him dead to rapture and despair,

A thing that grieves not and that never hopes.

Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox? ”

This desire to get away from the mind of man to primitive
conditions where mind does not count, seems to me quite incom-
prehensible. The very thing that is the glory and triumph of
man is decried and discouraged, and a physical environment
which will oppress the mind and prevent its growth is con-
sidered desirable. Present-day civilisation is full of evils, but it
is also full of good; and it has the capacity in it to rid itself
of those evils. To destroy it root and branch is to remove that
capacity from it and revert to a dull, sunless and miserable ex-
istence. But even if that were desirable it is an impossible un-
dertaking. We cannot stop the river of change or cut ourselves
adrift from it, and psychologically we who have eaten of the
apple of Eden cannot forget that taste and go back to primi-
tiveness.

It is difficult to argue this, for the two standpoints are utterly
different. Gandhiji is always thinking in terms of personal
salvation and of sin, while most of us have society’s welfare
uppermost in our minds. I find it difficult to grasp the idea of
sin, and perhaps it is because of this that I cannot appreciate
Gandhijia general outlook. He is not out to change society or
the social structure, he devotes himself to the eradication of
sin from individuals. "The follower of swadeshi ,” he has
written, " never takes upon himself the vain task of trying to
reform the world, for he believes that the world is moved and

512 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

always will be moved according to the rules set by God.” And
yet he is aggressive enough in his attempts to reform the world;
but the reform he aims at is individual reform, the conquest
over the senses and the desire to indulge them, which is sin.
Probably he will agree with the definition of liberty which an
able Roman Catholic writer on Fascism has given: “ Liberty
is no more than freedom from the bondage of sin.” How
almost identical this is with the words of the Bishop of London
written two hundred years ago; “The Freedom which Chris-
tianity gives is Freedom from the Bondage of sin and Satan
and from the Dominion of Men's Lusts and Passions and
inordinate Desires.” 1

If this standpoint is once appreciated then one begins to
understand a little Gandhiji’s attitude to sex, extraordinary as
that seems to the average person to-day. For him “ any union is
a crime when the desire for progeny is absent ”, and “ the adop-
tion of artificial methods must result in imbecility and nervous
prostration.” “ It is wrong and immoral to seek to escape the
consequences of one’s acts. ... It is bad for him to indulge
his appetite and then escape the consequences by taking tonics
or other medicines. It is still worse for a person to indulge his
animal passions and escape the consequences of his acts.

Personally I find this attitude unnatural and shocking, and
if he is rignt, then I am a criminal on the verge of imbecility
and nervous prostration. The Roman Catholics have also
vigorously opposed birth-control, but they have not carried their
argument to the logical limit as Gandhiji has done. They have
temporised and compromised with what they considered to be
human nature. 2 But Gandhiji has gone to the extreme limit of
his argument and does not recognise the validity or necessity
of the sexual act at any time except for the sake of children;
he refuses to recognise any natural sex attraction between man
and woman. “But I am told,” he says, “that this is an im-
possible ideal, that I do not take account of the natural attrac-
tion between man and woman. I refuse to believe that the
sensual affinity, referred to here, can be at all regarded as

1 This letter is quoted on page 378, ante .

2 Pope Pius XI in his Encyclical on Christian Marriage, issued on
December 31, 1931, says: “ Nor must married people be considered
to act against the order of nature if they make use of their rights
according to sound and natural reason, even though no new life
€*xi thence arise on account of circumstance of time or the existence
of some defect.” The “ circumstance of time ” apparently refers to
the so-called “safe period” when conception is unlikely.

DESOLATION

5*3

natural; in that case the deluge would soon be over us. The
natural affinity between man and woman is the attraction
between brother and sister, mother and son, or father and
daughter. It is this natural attraction that sustains the world.”
And more emphatically still : “ No, I must declare with all the
power I can command that sensual attraction, even between
nusband and wife, is unnatural.”

In these days of the Oedipus complex and Freud and the
spread of psychoanalytical ideas this emphatic statement of
belief sounds strange and distant. One can accept it as an act
of faith or reject it. There is no half-way house, for it is a
question of faith, not of reason. For my part I think Gandhiji
is absolutely wrong in this matter. His advice may fit in with
some cases, but as a general policy it can only lead to frustra-
tion, inhibition, neurosis, and all manner of physical and
nervous ills. Sexual restraint is certainly desirable, but I doubt
if Gandhiji’s doctrine is likely to result in this to any wide-
spread extent. It is too extreme, and most people decide that
it is beyond their capacity and go their usual ways, or there
is friction between husband and wife. Evidently Gandhiji
thinks that birth-control methods necessarily mean inordinate
indulgence in the sex act, and that if the sexual affinity between
man and woman is admitted, every man will run after every
woman, and vice versa. Neither inference is justified, and I do
not know why he is so obsessed by this problem of sex, im-
portant as it is. For him it is a 4 soot or whitewash ' question,
there are no intermediate shades. At either end he takes up an
extreme position which seems to me most abnormal and un-
natural. Perhaps this is a reaction from the deluge of literature
on sexology that is descending on us in these days. I presume
I am a normal individual and sex has played its part in my life,
but it has not obsessed me or diverted me from my other
activities. It has been a subordinate part.

Essentially, his attitude is that of the ascetic who has turned
his back to the world and its ways, who denies life and con-
siders it evil. For an ascetic that is natural, but it seems far-
fetched to apply it to men and women of the world who
accept life and try to make the most of it. And in avoiding one
evil he puts up with many other and graver evils.

I have drifted to other topics, but in those distressful days in
Alipore Gaol all these ideas crowded in my mind, not in
logical order or sequence, but in a wild jumble which confused
me and oppressed me. Above all there was the feeling of
loneliness and desolation, heightened by the stifling atmosphere

514 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

of the gaol and my lonely little cell. If I had been outside the
shock would have been more momentary, and I would have
adjusted myself sooner to new conditions, and found relief in
expression and action. Inside the prison there was no such
relief, and I spent some miserable days. Fortunately for myself
I am resilient and recover soon from attacks of pessimism. I
began to grow out of my depression, and then I had an inter-
view in gaol with Kamala. That cheered me up tremendously,
and my feeling of isolation left me. Whatever happened, I felt,
we had one another.

LXII

PARADOXES

People who do not know Gandhiji personally and have only
read his writings are apt to think that he is a priestly type,
extremely puritanical, long-faced, Calvinistic, and a kill-joy,
something like the “ priests in black gowns walking their
rounds.” But his writings do him an injustice ; he is far greater
than what he writes, and it is not quite fair to quote what he
has written and criticise it. He is the very opposite of the
Calvinistic priestly type. His smile is delightful, his laughter
infectious, and he radiates li^ht-heartedness. There is some-
thing childlike about him which is full of charm. When he
enters a room he brings a breath of fresh air with him which
lightens the atmosphere.

He is an extraordinary paradox. I suppose all outstanding
men are so to some extent. For years I have puzzled over this
problem : why with all his love and solicitude for the underdog
he yet supports a system which inevitably produces it and
crushes it; why with all his passion for non-violence he is in
favour of a political and social structure which is wholly based
on violence and coercion? Perhaps it is not correct to say that
he is in favour of such a system; he is more or less of a philo-
sophical anarchist. But as the ideal anarchist state is too far
off still and cannot easily be conceived, he accepts the present
order. It is not I think a question of means, that he objects, as
he does, to the use of violence in bringing about a change. Quite
apart from the methods to be adopted for changing the existing
order, an ideal objective can be envisaged, something that is
possible of achievement in the not distant future.

Sometimes he calls himself a socialist, but he uses the word
in a sense peculiar to himself which has little or nothing to do
with the economic framework of society which usually goes
by the name of socialism. Following his lead a number of
prominent Congressmen have taken to the use of that word,
meaning thereby a kind of muddled humanitarianism. They err
in distinguished company in the use of this vague political ter-
minology, for they are but following the example of the Prime
Minister of the British National Government . 1 I know that

1 Mr. Ramsay MacDonald in the course of his message to the
Federation of Conservative and Unionist Associations at Edinburgh

5»5

5*6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Gandhiji is not ignorant of the subject, for he has read many
books on economics and socialism and even Marxism, and has
discussed it with others. But I am becoming more and more
convinced that in vital matters the mind by itself does not
carry us far. 44 If your heart does not want to,” said William
James, "your head will assuredly never make you believe.”
The emotions govern the general outlook and control the mind.
Our conversations, whether they are religious, political or
economic, are really based on emotion or instinct. As Schopen-
hauer has said : 44 Man can do what he wills, but he cannot will
what he will will.”

Gandhiji underwent a tremendous conversion during his early
days in South Africa, and this shook him up greatly and altered
his whole outlook on life. Since then he has had a fixed basis
for all his ideas, and his mind is hardly an open mind. He
listens with the greatest patience and attention to people who
make new suggestions to him, but behind all his courteous
interest one has the impression that one is addressing a closed
door. He is so firmly anchored to some ideas that everything
else seems unimportant. To insist on other and secondary
matters would be a distraction and a distortion of the larger
scheme. To hold on to that anchor would necessarily result in
a proper adjustment of these other matters. If the means are
right, the end is bound to be right.

That, I think, is the main background of his thought. He
suspects also socialism, and more particularly Marxism, because
of their association with violence. The very words 4 class war '
breathe conflict and violence and are thus repugnant to him.
He has also no desire to raise the standards of the masses
beyond a certain very modest competence, for higher standards
and leisure may lead to self-indulgence and sin. It is bad
enough that the handful of the well-to-do are self-indulgent, it
would be much worse if their numbers were added to. Some
such inference can be drawn from a letter he wrote in 1926.
This was in answer to a letter that came to him from England
during the great coal lock-out or strike. His correspondent was
advancing the argument that the miners will be beaten in the
struggle because there are too many of them and they should
therefore use contraceptives and limit their numbers. In the
course of his reply Gandhiji said : 44 Lastly, if the mine-owners

in January 1935 said: 44 The difficulties of the times make integra-
tion and concentration essential for every people. This is the true
Socialism, as it is also the true Nationalism — and, for that matter,
the true Individualism/'

PARADOXES

5*7

are in the wrong and still win, they will do so not because the
miners overbreed, but because the miners have not learnt the
lesson of restraint all along the line. If the miners had no
children, they would have no incentive for any betterment and
no provable cause for a rise in wages. Need they drink, gamble,
smoke? Will it be any answer to say that mine-owners do
all these things and yet have the upper hand? If the miners
do not claim to be letter than the capitalist, what right have
they to ask for the world's sympathy? Is it to multiply capi-
talists and strengthen capitalism? We are called upon to pay
homage to democracy under a promise of a better world when
it reigns supreme. L.et us not reproduce on a vast scale the
evils we choose to ascribe to capitalist and capitalism." 1

As I read this, the starved and pinched faces of the English
miners and their wives and children came before me, as I had
seen them in that summer of 1926, struggling helplessly and
pitifully against the monstrous system that crushed them.
Gandhiji's facts are not quite correct, for the miners were not
asking for a rise in wages; they were fighting against a reduc-
tion and had been locked out. But this need not concern us
now. Nor need the question of the use of contraceptives by
miners concern us, although it was a somewhat remarkable
suggestion for the solution of industrial conflicts. I have
quoted from Gandhiji's reply to help in the understanding of
his outlook on labour matters and the usual demand for a rise
in the workers' standard of living. That outlook is as far
removed from the socialistic, or for the matter of that the
capitalistic, as anything can be. To say that science and indus-
trial technique to-day can demonstrably feed, clothe and house
everybody and raise their standards of living very greatly, if
vested interests did not intervene, does not interest him much,
for he is not keen on those results, beyond a certain limit. The
promise of socialism therefore holds no attraction for him, and
capitalism is only partly tolerable because it circumscribes the
evil. He dislikes both, fcut puts up with the latter for the pre-
sent as a lesser evil and as something which exists and of which
he has to take cognizance.

I may be wrong perhaps in imputing these ideas to him, but
I do feel that he tends to think in this manner, and the para-
doxes and confusions in his utterances that trouble us are really
due to entirely different premises from which he starts. He does
not want people to make an ideal of over-increasing comfort

1 This letter is quoted in Self-Restraint vs. Self-Indulgence , by
M. K. Gandhi.

Jl8 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

and leisure, but to think of the moral life, give up their bad
habits, to indulge themselves less and less, and thus to develop
themselves individually and spiritually. And those who wish to
serve the masses have not so much to raise them materially as
to go down themselves to their level and mix with them on
equal terms. In so doing inevitably they will help in raising
them somewhat. That, according to him, is true democracy.
“ Many have despaired of resisting me,” he writes in a state-
ment he issued on 17th September, 1934. “ This is a humiliating
revelation to me, a bom democrat. I make that claim, if com-

f tlete identification with the poorest of mankind, longing to
ive no better than they, and a corresponding conscious effort
to approach that level to the best of one’s ability, can entitle
one to make it.”

With this argument and outlook probably no modem demo-
crat, capitalist, or socialist, will agree, except in so far as it is
indecent and improper to cut ourselves off from the masses
and flaunt our luxury and far higher standards in the faces of
the vast majority of those who lack the barest necessities. But
a man with the old religious outlook may find some agreement,
for both are emotionally tied up with the past and are always
thinking in terms of that past. They think more of what has
been that of what is or what is going to be. There is all the
difference in the world between the psychological urge to the
past and to the future. In the old world it was difficult to
think of raising the general material level of the masses. The
poor were always with us. The handful of rich men were then
an essential part of the social fabric, they were necessary to the
productive system. And so the moralist, the reformer, and the
sensitive man, accepted them, but at the same time tried to
impress them with their obligations to their needy brethren.
They were to be the trustees of the poor. They were to be
charitable. And charity became one of the major virtues
ordained by religion. Gandhiji is always laying stress on this
idea of trusteeship of the feudal prince, of the big landlord, of
the capitalist. He follows a long succession of men of religion.
The Pope has declared that “the rich must consider them-
selves the servants of the Almighty as well as the guardians
and the distributors of his wealth, to whom Jesus Christ him-
self entrusted the fate of the poor.” Popular Hinduism and
Islam repeat this idea and are always calling upon the rich to
be charitable, and they respond by building temples or mosques
or dharamshalas, or giving, out of their abundance, coppers or
silver to the poor and feeling very virtuous in consequence.

PARADOXES

5 ! 9

A striking passage illustrating this old-world religious attitude
occurs in the famous Encyclical Rerum Novarum of Pope Leo
XIII issued in May 1891. Continuing his argument dealing
with the new industrial conditions, he says :

" To suffer and to endure, therefore, is the lot of humanity;
let men try as they may, no strength and no artifice will ever
succeed in banishing from human life the ills and troubles
which beset it. If any there are who pretend differently — who
hold out to a hard-pressed people freedom from pain and
trouble, undisturbed repose ana constant enjoyment — they cheat
the people and impose upon them, and their lying promises
will only make the evil worse than before. There is nothing
more useful than to look at the world as it really is — and at
the same time look elsewhere for a remedy to its troubles.”

Further on we are told where this 'elsewhere ’ is:

“The things of the earth cannot be understood or valued
rightly without taking into consideration the life to come, the
life that will last for ever. . . . The great truth which we learn
from Nature herself is also the grand Christian dogma on
which religion rests as on its base— that when we have done
with this present life then we shall really befjin to live. God has
not created us for the perishable and transitory things of the
earth, but for things heavenly and everlasting; He has given us
the world as a place of exile, and not as our true country.
Money and the other things which men call good and desirable
— we may have them in abundance or we may want them alto-
gether; as far as eternal happiness is concerned, it is no
matter. . . .”

This religious attitude is bound up with the world of long
ago when the only possible escape from present misery was in
the hope of a world to come. But though conditions changed
and raised the human level in material prosperity beyond the
wildest dreams of the past, the stranglehold of that past con-
tinued, the stress now being laid on certain vague, unmeasur-
able spiritual values. The Catholics look back to the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries — the very period which is called the
‘Dark Age* by others — as the Golden Age of Christianity,
when saints flourished, and Christian rulers sallied forth to
fight in the Crusades, and Gothic cathedrals grew up. That
was the age, according to them “ of true Christian democracy
which was then realised under the control of the medieval
guilds, more fully than it has ever been before or since.”
Muslims look back with longing to the “ democracy of blam ”
under the early Khalifs, and to their amazing career of victory.

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

520

Hindus think likewise of the Vedic and Epic Periods, and
dream of a Rama Raj. And yet all history tells us that the
great masses of the people lived in utter misery in those past
days, lacking food and the barest necessaries of life. A handful
of people at the top may have indulged in the spiritual life,
having leisure and means to do so, but for the others, it is
difficult to imagine them doing anything but struggling for
bare sustenance. To a person who is starving, cultural and
spiritual progress is highly unlikely; his thoughts will be con-
centrated on food and how to get it.

The industrial age has brought many evils that loom large
before us; but we are apt to forget that, taking the world as a
whole, and especially the parts that are most industrialised, it
has laid down a basis of material well-being which makes cul-
tural and spiritual progress far easier for large numbers. This
is not all evident in India or other colonial countries as we have
not profited by industrialism. We have only been exploited by
it and in many respects made worse, even materially, and more
so culturally and spiritually. The fault is not of industrialism
but of foreign domination. The so-called Westernisation in
India has actually, for the time being, strengthened feudalism,
and instead of solving any of our problems has simply intensi-
fied them.

That has been our misfortune, and we must not allow it to
colour our vision of the world to-day. For under present con-
ditions the rich man is no longer a necessary or a desirable part
of the productive system or of society as a whole. He is re-
dundant and he is always coming in the way. And the old
business of the priest to ask the rich to be charitable and the

E oor to be resigned, grateful for their lot, thrifty and well-
ehaved, has lost its meaning. Human resources have grown
tremendously and can face and solve the world's problems.
Many of the rich have become definitely parasitical and the
existence of a parasite class is not only a hindrance but an
enormous waste of these resources. That class and the system
that breeds them actually prevent work and production and
encourage the workless at either end of the scale, both those
who live on other people's labour and those who have no work
to do and famish. Gandhiji himself wrote some time ago:
u To a people famishing and idle, the only acceptable form in
which God dare appear is work and promise of food as wages.
God created man to work for his fooa, and said that those who
ate without work were thieves."

To try to understand the complex problems of the modern

PARADOXES

5 *>

world by an application of ancient methods and formulae when
these problems did not exist, to use out-of-date phrases in regard
to them, is to produce confusion and to invite failure. The
very idea of private property, which seems to some people one
of the fundamental notions of the world, has been an ever-
changing one. Slaves were property at one time, and so were
women and children, the seigneur’s right to the bride’s first
night, roads, temples, ferries, bridges, public utilities, air and
land. Animals are still property, though legislation has in many
countries limited the rights of ownership. During war-time
there is a continuous infringement of property rights. Property
to-day is becoming more and more intangible, the possession of
shares, a certain amount of credit, etc. As the conception of
property changes, the State interferes more and more, public
opinion demands, and the law enforces, a limitation of the
anarchic rights of property-owners. All manner of heavy
taxes, which are in the nature of confiscation, swallow up indi-
vidual property rights for the public good. The public good
becomes the t>asis of public policy, and a man may not act
contrary to this public good even to protect his property rights.
After all, the vast majority of people had no property rights in
the past, they were themselves property owned by others. . Even
to-day a very small number have such rights. We hear a great
deal of vested interests. To-day a new vested interest has come
to be recognised, that of every man and woman to live and
labour ana enjoy the fruits of labour. Because of these
changing conceptions property and capital do not vanish, they
are diffused, and the power over others, which a concentration
of them gave to a few, is taken back by society as a whole.

Gandhiji wants to improve the individual internally, morally
and spiritually, and thereby to change the external environ-
ment. He wants people to give up bad habits and indulgences
and to become pure. He lays stress on sexual abstinence, on the
giving up of drink, smoking, etc. Opinions may. differ about
the relative wickedness of these indulgences, but can there be
any doubt that even from the individual point of view, and
much more so from the social, these personal failings are less
harmful than covetousness, selfishness, acquisitiveness, the fierce
conflicts of individuals for personal gain, the ruthless struggles
of groups and classes, the inhuman suppression and exploita-
tion of one group by another, the terrible wars between
nations? Of course he detests all this violence and degrading
conflict. But are they not inherent in the acquisitive society of
to-day with its law that the strong must prey on the weak, and

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

$22

its motto, that, as of old, “ they shall take who have the power
and they shall keep who can ”? The profit motive to-day inevit-
ably leads to conflict. The whole system protects and gives
every scope to man’s predatory instincts; it encourages some
finer instincts no doubt, but much more so the baser instincts
of man. Success means the knocking down of others and
mounting on their vanquished selves. If these motives and
ambitions are encouraged by society and attract the best of our
people, does Gandhiji think that he can achieve his ideal — the
moral man — in this environment? He wants to develop the
spirit of service; he will succeed in the case of some individuals,
but so long as society puts forward as exemplars the victors of
an acquisitive society and the chief urge as the personal profit
motive, the vast majority will follow this course.

But the problem is no longer merely a moral or an ethical
one. It is a practical and urgent problem of to-day, for the
world is in a hopeless muddle, and some way out must be found.
We cannot wait, Micawber-like, for something to turn up. Nor
can we live by negation alone criticising the evil aspects of
capitalism, socialism, communism, etc., and hoping vaguely for
the golden mean, which will produce a happy compromise com-
bining the best features of all systems, old and new. The
malady has to be diagnosed and the cure suggested and worked
for. It is quite certain that we cannot stand where we are,
nationally and internationally; we may try to go back or we
may push forward. Probably there is no choice in the matter,
for going back seems inconceivable.

And yet many of Gandhiji’s activities might lead one to
think that he wants to go back to the narrowest autarchy, not
only a self-sufficient nation, but almost a self-sufficient village.
In primitive communities the village was more or less self-
sufficient and fed and clothed itself and otherwise provided for
its needs. Of necessity that means an extremely low standard
of living. I do not tnink Gandhiji is permanently aiming at
this, for it is an impossible objective. The huge populations of
to-day would not be able even to subsist in some countries, they
would not tolerate this reversion to scarcity and starvation. It
is possible, I think, that in an agricultural country like India, so
very low is our present standard, that there might be a slight
improvement for the masses with the development of village
industries. But we are tied up, as every country is tied up, with
the rest of the world, and it seems to me quite impossible for
us to cut adrift. We must think, therefore, in terms of the
world, and in these terms a narrow autarchy is out of the

PARADOXES 523

question. Personally I consider it undesirable from every point
of view.

Inevitably we are led to the only possible solution— the estab-
lishment of a socialist order, first within national boundaries, and
eventually in the world as a whole, with a controlled production
and distribution of wealth for the public good. How this is to
be brought about is another matter, but it is clear that the
good of a nation or of mankind must not be held up because
some people who profit by the existing order object to the
change. If political or social institutions stand in the way of
such a change, they have to be removed. To compromise with
them at the cost of that desirable and practical ideal would be
a gross betrayal. Such a change may partly be forced or expe-
dited by world conditions, but it can hardly take place without
the willing consent or acquiescence of the great majority of the
people concerned. They have therefore to be converted and
won over to it. Conspiratorial violence of a small group will
not help. Naturally efforts must be made to win over even
those who profit by the existing system, but it is highly unlikely
that any large percentage of them will be converted.

The khadi movement, hand-spinning and hand-weaving,
which is Gandhiji's special favourite, is an intensification of
individualism in production, and is thus a throw-back to the
pre-industrial age. As a solution of any vital present-day prob-
lem it cannot be taken seriously, and it produces a mentality
which may become an obstacle to growth in the right direction.
Nevertheless as a temporary measure I am convinced that it has
served a useful purpose, and it is likely to be helpful for some
time to come, so long as the State itself does not undertake the
rightful solution of agrarian and industrial problems on a
country-wide scale. There is tremendous unrecorded unemploy-
ment in India and even greater partial unemployment in rural
areas. No attempt has been made by the State to combat this
unemployment, or help in any way the unemployed. Econo-
mically khadi has been of some little help to these wholly and
partially unemployed, and because this improvement has come
from their own efforts, it has raised their self-respect and given
them some feeling of confidence. The most marked result has
indeed been a psychological one. Khadi tried with some success
to bridge the gap between the dty and the village. It brought
nearer to each other the middle-class intelligentsia and the
peasantry. Clothing has a marked psychological effect on the
wearer as well as the beholder, and the adoption of the simple
white khadi dress by the middle-classes resulted in a growth of

524 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

simplicity, a lessening of vulgarity and ostentation, and a feel-
ing of unity with the masses. The lower middle classes no
longer tried to ape the richer classes in the matter of clothes or
feel humiliated in their cheaper attire. Indeed they felt not
only dignified but a little superior to those who still flaunted
silks and satins. Even the poorest felt something of this dig-
nity and self-respect. It was difficult in a large khadi-clad
gathering to distinguish between the rich and the poor, and
a spirit of camaraderie grew up. Khadi undoubtedly helped
the Congress to reach the masses. It became the uniform of
national freedom.

Khadi also became a check on the ever-present tendency of
the mill-owners to raise the prices of their stuffs. These mill-
owners in India were only kept in check in the past by foreign
competition, especially that of Lancashire. Whenever this com-
petition ceased, as during the World War, cloth prices soared
up in India to extraordinary heights and vast sums were made
by the Indian mills. The swadeshi and foreign-cloth boycott
movements later on also helped these mills greatly, but the
presence of khadi made a difference and prices could not go
up as high as they might otherwise have done. Indeed the
mills exploited the khadi sentiment of the people (and so did
Japan) by manufacturing coarse cloths which were almost indis-
tinguishable from the hand-spun and hand-woven article. In
the event of another emergency arising, like a war, resulting in
a stoppage of foreign cloth, it is unlikely now that the Indian
mill-owners will be able to exploit the consumers to the extent
they did from 1914 onwards. The khadi movement will prevent
that, and the khadi organisation has the capacity in it to spread
out at short notice.

In spite of all these present-day advantages of the khadi
movement in India it seems to me after all a transitional affair.
It may continue even later on as an auxiliary movement easing
the change-over to a higher economy. But the main drive in
future will have to be a complete overhauling of the agrarian
system and the growth of industry. No tinkering with the
land, and a multitude of commissions costing lakhs of rupees
and suggesting trivial changes in the superstructure, will do the
slightest good. The land system which we have i9 collapsing
before our eyes, and it is a hindrance to production, distribution
any rational and large-scale operations. Only a radical
change in it, putting an end to the little holdings and intro-
ducing organised collective and co-operative enterprises, and
thus increasing the yield greatly with much less effort, will meet

PARADOXES

5*5

modem conditions. The land will not and cannot absorb all
our people, and large-scale operations will (as Gandhiji fears)
lessen the workers required on the land. The others must turn,
partly it may be, to small-scale industry, but in the main to
large-scale socialised industries and social services.

Khadi has certainly brought some relief in many areas, but
this very success that it has attained has an element of danger.
It means that it is propping up a decaying land system and
delaying, to that extent, the change-over to a better system.
The effect is not substantial enough to make a marked
difference, but the tendency is there. For the tenant or the
small peasant proprietor, his share of the produce of the land
is no longer enough to keep him going even on the very low
level he has reached. He has to find extraneous aids to his
meagre income or, as he does usually, get more into debt, in
order to pay his rent or revenue. The additional income thus
helps the landlord or the State to realise their share which
otherwise they might be unable to do. In the event of the
additional income being substantial enough it is likely eventu-
ally the rent will rise and catch up to it. Under the present
system most of the additional labour of the tenant and his
attempts to be thrifty will ultimately benefit the landlord. As
far as I can remember, Henry George in his Progress and
Poverty has dealt with this point, giving instances, especially of
Ireland.

Gandhiji’s attempt to revive village industries is an extension
of his khadi programme. It will do immediate good, part of it
more or less permanent, most of it temporary. It will help the
villager in his present distress and revive certain artistic and
cultural values which were in danger of dying. But in so far
as it is a revolt against machinery and industrialism it will
not succeed. In a recent article on Village Industries in the
Harijan Gandhiji writes : “ Mechanisation is good when hands
are too few for the work intended to be accomplished. It is an
evil when there are more hands than required, for the work, as
is the case of India. . . . The problem with us is not how to
find leisure for the teeming millions inhabiting our villages.
The problem is how to utilise their idle hours, which are equal
to the working days of six months in the year.” This objection
applies in varying measure to all the countries suffering from
unemployment. But the fault surely is not that there is not
work to do, but that under the present profit system the work
Ls not profitable enough to the employers. There is an abun-
dance of work simply calling out to be done— the building of

526 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

roads, irrigation schemes, houses, the spread of sanitation and
medical facilities, of industry, electricity, social and cultural
services, education, and the provision of the scores of necessary
articles that the people lack. All our millions can work hard
for the next fifty years without exhausting the present possi-
bilities. But that can only be done if the urge is social im-
provement and not the profit motive, and if the community
organises it for the general good. The Russian Soviet Union,
whatever other shortcomings it may possess, has no unem-
ployed. Our people are idle not for lack of work, but because
no facilities for work and cultural improvement are provided
for them. The abolition of child labour, the provision of com-
pulsory education up to a reasonable age, would take boys and
girls off from the ranks of labour or the unemployed, and
relieve the labour market of the weight of tens of millions of
prospective workers.

Gandhiji has tried, with some success, to improve the charkha
and the takli and increase their productive capacities. That is
an attempt to improve the tool ard the machine, and if the
improvement continues (it is quite conceivable to have cottage
industries worked by electricity), the profit motive will again
step in and produce what is called over-production and unem-
ployment. Village industries without being tacked on to som^
modem industrial technique can never provide even the essen-
tial material and cultural goods that we need to-day. And they
cannot compete with the machine. Is it desirable or possible for
us to stop the functioning of big-scale machinery in our
country? Gandhiji has said repeatedly that he is not against
machinery as such; he seems to think that it is out of place
in India to-day. But can we wind up the basic industries,
such as iron and steel, or even the lighter ones that already
exist?

It is obvious that we cannot do so. If we have railways,
bridges, transport facilities, etc., we must either produce them
ourselves or depend on others. If we want to have the means
of defence we must not only have the basic industries but a
highly developed industrial system. No country to-day is really
independent or capable of resisting aggression unless it is indus-
trially developed. One basic industry demands another for its
support and as a complement to it, and finally we have the
machine-building industry itself. With all these basic industries
functioning it is inevitable that the lighter industries should
spread. There is no stopping this process, for not only is our
material and cultural progress bound up with it, but also our

PARADOXES

5*7

freedom itself. And the more big industry spreads the less can
small-scale village industries compete with it. They may have
some chance of survival under a socialist system, but none under
capitalism, and even under socialism they can only exist as
cottage industries specialising in particular goods which are not
manufactured on a mass scale.

Some Congress leaders are frightened of industrialisation,
and imagine that the present-day troubles of the industrial
countries are due to mass production. That is a strange mis-
reading of the situation. 1 If the masses lack anything, is it bad
to produce it in sufficient quantities for them? Is it preferable
for them to continue in want rather than have mass produc-
tion? The fault obviously is not in the production but in the
folly and inadequacy of the distributive system.

Another difficulty which the promoters of village industries
have to face is the dependence of our agriculture on the world
market. The peasant is forced to grow commercial crops and to
depend on world prices. While these prices vary he has to
pay his rent or revenue in hard cash. He has to raise this
money somehow, or at any rate he tries to do so, and so he
sows the crops which he thinks will bring him the best price.
He cannot afford to grow what he himself needs to make
himself and his family self-sufficient even in the matter of
food.

In recent years the fall in agricultural prices of most food
grains and other articles suddenly led millions of the peasantry,
especially in the U.P. and Behar, to cultivate sugar-cane. A
tariff on sugar had resulted in sugar factories cropping up like
mushrooms, and sugar-cane was in great demand. But the
supply was soon far in excess of the demand, and the factory
owners cruelly exploited the peasantry, and the price fell.

These few considerations and a host of others seem to me to
exclude the possibility or the desirability of any narrow
autarchichal solution of our agrarian and industrial problems.
Indeed they affect every phase of our national life. We cannot
take refuge in vague and emotional phrases, but must face these
facts and adapt ourselves to them, so that we may become the
subjects of history instead of being its helpless objects.

1 Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel speaking at Ahmedabad on January
3, 1935: “True socialism lies in the development of village indus-
tries. We do not want to reproduce in our country the chaotic
conditions prevalent in the Western countries consequent on mass-
production M

5^8 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Again I think of the paradox that is Gandhiji. 1 With all his
keen intellect and passion for bettering the downtrodden and
oppressed, why does he support a system, and a system which
is obviously decaying, which creates this misery and waste? He
seeks a way out, it is true, but is not that way to the past
barred and bolted? And meanwhile he blesses all the relics of
the old order which stand as obstacles in the way of advance —
the feudal States, the big zamindaris and taluqadaris , the
present capitalist system. Is it reasonable to believe in the theory
of trusteeship — to give unchecked power and wealth to an
individual and to expect him to use it entirely for the public
good? Are the best of us so perfect as to be trusted in this way?
Even Plato’s philosopher-kings could hardly have borne this
burden worthily. And is it good for the others to have even
these benevolent supermen over them? But there are no super-
men or philosopher-kings; there are only frail human beings
who cannot help thinking that their own personal good or the
advancement of their own ideas is identical with the public
good. The snobbery of birth, position, and economic power is
perpetuated, and the consequences in many ways are disastrous.

Again, I would repeat that I am not at present considering
the question of how to effect the change, of how to get rid of
the obstacles in the way, by compulsion or conversion, violence
or non-violence. I shall deal with this aspect later. But the
necessity for the change must be recognised and clearly stated.
If leaders and thinkers do not clearly envisage this and state it,
how can they expect even to convert anybody to their way of
thinking, or develop the necessary ideology in the people?
Events are undoubtedly the most powerful educators, but events
have to be properly understood and interpreted if their signifi-
cance is to be realised, and properly directed action is to result
from them.

1 In one of his speeches at the Round Table Conference in
London in 1931, Gandhiji said: "Above all, the Congress repre-
sents, in its essence, the dumb semi-starved millions scattered over
the length and breadth of the land in its 700,000 villages, no matter
whether they come from British India or what is called Indian
India (Indian States). Every interest which, in the opinion of the
Congress, is worthy of protection has to subserve the interests of
these dumb millions; and so you do find now and again apparently
a dash between several interests, and if there is a genuine real
clash, I have no hesitation in saying, on behalf of the Congress,
that the Congress will sacrifice every interest for the sake or the
interest of these dumb millions."

PARADOXES

5*9

I have often been asked by friends and colleagues who have
occasionally been exasperated by my utterances : Have you not
come across good and benevolent princes, charitable landlords,
well-meaning and amiable capitalists? Indeed I have. I myself
belong to a class which mixes with these lords of the land and
owners of wealth. I am a typical bourgeois, brought up in
bourgeois surroundings, with all the early prejudices that this
training has given me. Communists have called me a petty
bourgeois with perfect justification. Perhaps they might label
me now one of the “ repentant bourgeoisie ” But whatever I
may be is beside the point. It is absurd to consider national,
international, economic and social problems in terms of isolated
individuals. Those very friends who question me are never tired
of repeating that our quarrel is with the sin and not the sinner.

I would not even go so far. I would say that my quarrel is with
a system and not with individuals. A system is certainly em-
bodied to a great extent m individuals and groups, and these
individuals and groups have to be converted or combated. But
if a system has ceased to be of value and is a drag, it has to go,
and the classes or groups that cling to it will also have to
undergo a transformation. That process of change should
involve as little suffering as possible, but unhappily suffering and
dislocation are inevitable. We cannot put up with a major evil
for fear of a far lesser one, which in any event is beyond our
power to remedy.

Every type of human association — political, social or economic
— has some philosophy at the back of it. When these associa-
tions change this philosophical foundation must also change in
order to fit in with it and to utilise it to the best advantage.
Usually the philosophy lags behind the course of events, and
this lag creates all the trouble. Democracy and capitalism grew
up together in the nineteenth century, but they were not mutu-
ally compatible. There was a basic contradiction between them,
for democracy laid stress on the power of the many, while
capitalism gave real power to the few. This ill-assorted pair
carried on somehow because political parliamentary democracy
was in itself a very limited kind of democracy and did not
interfere much with the growth of monopoly and power concen-
tration.

Even so, as the spirit of democracy grew a divorce be-
came inevitable, and the time for that has come now. Parlia-
mentary democracy is in disrepute to-day, and as a reaction
from it all manner of new slogans fill the air. Because of this,
the British Government in India becomes more reactionary still
s

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

530

and makes it an excuse for withholding from us even the outer
forms of political freedom. The Indian Princes, strangely
enough, make this a justification for their unchecked autocracy
and stoutly declare their intention of maintaining medieval
conditions in their domains such as exist nowhere else in the
world. 1 But the failure of parliamentary democracy is not that
it has gone too far, but that it did not go far enough. It was not
democratic enough because it did not provide for economic
democracy, and its methods were slow and cumbrous and un-
suited to a period of rapid change.

The Indian States represent to-day probably the extremest
type of autocracy existing in the world. They are, of course,
subject to British suzerainty, but the British Government inter-
feres only for the protection or advancement of British interests.
It is really astonishing how these feudal old-world enclaves have
carried on with so little change right into the middle of the
twentieth century. The air is heavy and still there, and the
waters move sluggishly, and the newcomer, used to change and
movement and a little weary of them perhaps, feels a drowsi-
ness, and a faint charm steals over him. It all seems unreal, like
a picture where time stands still and an unchanging scene meets

1 The Maharaja of Patiala, Chancellor of the Chamber of
Princes, speaking in the Chamber at Delhi on January 22nd, 1935,
referred to the opinion of Indian politicians who favour Federation
in the hope that the Princes would be forced by circumstances to
introduce democratic forms of government. He went on to say that
“ while the Princes of India have always been willing to do what
was best for their people, and will be ready to accommodate them-
selves and their constitutions to the spirit of the times, we must
frankly say that if British India is hoping to compel us to wear on
our healthy body politic the Nessus shirt of a discredited political
theory, they are living in a world of unreality/' (See also p. 501 ante
for Mysore Dewan's speech.) Speaking on the c ame aay in the
Chamber of Princes, the Maharaja of Bikaner said: “We, the
Rulers of the Indian States, are not soldiers of fortune. And I take
the liberty of stating that we who, through centuries of heredity,
can claim to have inherited the instincts of rule and, I trust, a
certain measure of statesmanship, should take the utmost care to
safeguard against our being stampeded in a hurry to any hasty or
ill-considered decision. . . May I in all modesty say that tne Princes
have no intention of allowing themselves to be destroyed by any-
body, and that should the time unfortunately come when the
Crown is unable to afford the Indian States the necessary protection
in fulfilment of its treaty obligations, the Princes and States will die
lighting to the bitter end/'

PARADOXES

53 «

the eye. Almost unconsciously he drifts back to the past and to
his childhood’s dreams, and visions of belted and armoured
knights and fair and brave maidens come to him, and turreted
castles and chivalry and quixotic ideas of honour and pride and
matchless courage and scorn of death. Especially if he happens
to be in Rajputana, that home of romance and of vain and im-
possible deeds.

But soon the visions fade and a sense of oppression comes; it
is stifling and difficult to breathe, and below the still or slow-
moving waters there is stagnation and putrefaction. One feels
hedged, circumscribed, bound down in mind and body. And
one sees the utter backwardness and misery of the people, con-
trasting vividly with the glaring ostentation of the prince’s
palace. How much of the wealth of the State flows into that

[ >alace for the personal needs and luxuries of the prince, how
ittle goes back to the people in the form of any service I Our
princes are terribly expensive to produce and to keep up. What
do they give back for this lavish expense on them?

A veil of mystery surrounds these States. Newspapers are not
encouraged there, and at the most a literary or semi-official
weekly might flourish. Outside newspapers are often barred.
Literacy is very low, except in some of the Southern States —
Travancore, Cochin, etc. — where it is far higher than in British
India. The principal news that comes from the States is of a
Viceregal visit, with all its pomp and ceremonial and mutually
complimentaiy speeches, or of an extravagantly celebrated
marriage or birthday of the Ruler, or an agrarian rising. Special
laws protect the princes from criticism, even in British India,
and within the States the mildest criticism is rigorously sup-
pressed. Public meetings are almost unknown, and even meet-
ings for social purposes are often banned . 1 Leading public men

1 A Press message from Hyderabad, Deccan, dated October 3rd,
1934, states: “ A public meeting to celebrate Mr. Gandhi’s birthday
announced to be held in the local Vivekvardini Theatre yesterday
had to be abandoned. The meeting was organised by the Hydera-
bad Harijan Sevak Sangh (Servants of the Untouchables Society).
The secretary of the society, in a letter to the Press, stated that 24
hours before the time of the meeting the authorities demanded that
permission to hold the meeting could only be granted on condition
that a cash security of Rs. 2000 was furnished and an undertaking
given that no speeches of a political nature should be delivered,
and no official actions of Government officers should be criticised.
As this gave the convener insufficient time to readjust matters with
the authorities the meeting had to be abandoned.

532 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

from outside are frequently prevented from entering the States.
In the middle 'twenties Mr. C. R. Das was very ill and he de-
cided to go to Kashmir to recuperate. He was not on a political
mission. He journeyed right up to the Kashmir border, but was
stopped there. Even Mr. M. A. Jinnah was debarred from enter-
ing Hyderabad State, and Mrs. Sarojini Naidu, whose home b
in Hyderabad city, was not permitted to go there for a long

such conditions prevail in the States it would have
been natural for the Congress to stand up for the elementary
rights of the people of the States and to criticise their whole-
sale suppression. But Gandhiji fathered a novel policy on the
Congress in regard to the States— the “policy of non-interference
in the internal administration of the States.” This hush-hush
policy has been adhered to by him in spite of the most extra-
ordinary and painful occurrences in the States, and in spite of
wholly unprovoked attacks by the States' governments on the
Congress. Apparently the fear is that Congress criticism might
offend the Rulers and make it more difficult to 4 convert ' them.
In a letter written in July 1934 by Gandhiji to Mr. N. C. Kelkar,
the President of the States Subjects’ Conference, he reiterated
his conviction that the policy of non-interference was both wise
and sound, and the view he took of the legal and constitutional
position of these States was most extraordinary. “ The States,”
he wrote, “are independent entities under British law. That
part of India which is described as British has no more power
to shape the policy of the States than it has, say, that of
Afghanistan or Ceylon.” It is not surprising that even the mild
and moderate Indian States' People's Conference and the
Liberals took exception to his views and his advice.

But these views were welcome enough to the Rulers of the
States, and they took advantage of them. Within a month the
Travancore Government banned the National Congress in its
territories and stopped all its meetings and its enrolment of
members. In doing so, it stated that 4 responsible leaders ’ had
themselves given this advice— obviously hinting at Gandhiji's
statement. This ban, it might be noted, was after the with-
drawal of the Civil Disobedience movement in British India
(the States had never been involved in the movement) and when
the Congress had been declared a legal organisation again by
the Government of India. It is also interesting to note mat the
chief political adviser of the Travancore Government at the
tims was (and still is) Sir C. P. Ramaswamy Aiyar, once a
General Secretary of the Congress as well as of the Home Rule

period.

W T hen

PARADOXES 533

League, later a Liberal, and the holder of high office in the
Government of India and the Madras Government.

In accordance with the Congress policy, following Gandhiji’s
advice, not a word was said in public about this unprovoked
attack on the Congress in normal times by the Travancore
Government. 1 Some of the Liberals even protested against it
vigorously. Indeed, Gandhiji’s position in regard to the States is
far more moderate and restrained than that of the Liberals.
Perhaps among the leading public men only Pandit Madan
Mohan Malaviya, with his close contacts with numerous
Princes, is equally restrained and solicitous of not offending the
susceptibilities of the Rulers.

Gandhi ii was not always so cautious in regard to the Indian
Princes. On a famous occasion in February 1916, during the
inauguration ceremonies of the Hindu University at Benares,
he addressed a meeting presided over by one of the Princes and
attended by a host of other Princes. He had freshly returned
from South Africa, and the burden of all-India politics was not
yet on his shoulders. Earnestly and with a prophet’s fire he
addressed them and told them to mend their ways and give up
their vain pomp and luxury. “ Princes 1 Go and sell your
jewels 1 ” he said; and though they may not have sold their
jewels, they certainly went. In great consternation, one by one
and in small groups, they left the hall, and even the president
trooped out, leaving the speaker to carry on by himself. Mrs.
Annie Besant, who was present then, was also offended at Gand-
hiji’s remarks and withdrew from the meeting.

In his letter to Mr. N. C. Kelkar, Gandhiji says further : " I
would like the States to grant autonomy to their subjects, and
would like the Princes to regard themselves and be, in fact,
trustees for the people over whom they rule. . . .” If there is
anything in this idea of trusteeship, why should we object to the
claim of the British Government that they are trustees for the
Government of India? Except for the fact that they are
foreigners in India, I see no difference. There are almost equally
marked differences as regards the colour of the^kin, racial origin
and culture between various peoples in India.

1 Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel laid stress on this non-intervention
policy in a speech at Baroda on January 6th, 1935. He is reported to
have said " mat Workers in Indian States should do their work with
all the limitations imposed by the State, and instead of criticising
the administration, efforts should be made to keep up cordial rela-
tions between the ruler and the ruled.”

534 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

During the past few years there has been a rapid permeation
of British officials in Indian States, often thrust on an unwilling
but helpless Ruler. The Government of India always exercised
a great deal of control over the States from above; now in ad-
dition to this there is an internal grip on some of the most im-
portant States. So that when these States speak it is often the
Government of India speaking with another voice, but taking
full advantage of the feudal background.

I can understand that it is not always possible to indulge in
the same activities in the States as elsewhere. Indeed, there
are considerable differences — agrarian, industrial, communal,
governmental — between the various British Indian provinces,
and a uniform policy is not always feasible. But though action
must depend on circumstances, our general policy should not
vary in different localities, and what is bad in one place must
be bad in another. Otherwise the charge will be made, and it
has been made, that we have no consistent policy or principles,
and all we are out for is to gain power for ourselves.

A great deal of criticism has been directed, and quite rightly,
against separate electorates for religious and other minorities.
It has been pointed out that they are quite inconsistent with
democracy. It is, of course, not possible to have democracy,
or what is called responsible government, if the electorate is
divided up into watertight religious compartments. But the
most earnest and persistent of the critics, like Pandit Madan
Mohan Malaviya and the leaders of the Hindu Mahasabha,
are singularly acquiescent in regard to the conditions in the
States, and are apparently prepared to have a federal union be-
tween the autocracy of the States and the democracy (so it is
called) of the rest of India. A more incompatible and absurd
union it is difficult to imagine, but this is swallowed without an
effort by the champions of democracy and nationalism in the
Hindu Mahasabha. We talk of logic and consistency, but our
basic urges continue to be emotional.

And so I come back to the paradox of the Congress and the
States. My mind travels to Thomas Paine and the phrase he
used about Burke nearly a century and a half ago : “ He pities
the plumage, but forgets the dying bird/’ Gandhiji certainly
never forgets the dying bird. But why so much insistence on
the plumage?

: More or less the same considerations apply to the taluqadari
and big zamindari system. It hardly seems a matter for argu-
ment that this semi-feudal system is out of date and is a great
hindrance to production and general progress. It conflicts even

PARADOXES

535

with a developing capitalism, and almost all over the world
large landed estates have gradually vanished and given place to
peasant proprietors. I had always imagined that the only pos-
sible question that could arise in India was one of compen-
sation. But to my surprise I have discovered during the last
year or so that Gandhiji approves of the taluqudari system as
such and wants it to continue. He said in July 1934 at Cawn-
pore 0 that better relations between landlords and tenants could
be brought about by a change of hearts on both sides. If that
was done both could live in peace and harmony. He was never
in favour of abolition of the taluqardari or zamindari system,
and those who thought that it should be abolished did not
know their own minds.” (This last charge is rather unkind.)

He is further reported to have said : “ I shall be no party to
dispossessing propertied classes of their private property with-
out just cause. My objective is to reach your hearts and convert
you [he was addressing a deputation of big zamindars] so that
you may hold all your private property in trust for your tenants
and use it primarily for their welfare. . . . But supposing that
there is an attempt unjustly to deprive you of your property
you will find me fighting on your side. . . . The socialism and
communism of the West is based on certain conceptions which
are fundamentally different from ours. One such conception is
their belief in the essential selfishness of human nature. . . .
Our socialism and communism should therefore be based on
non-violence and on the harmonious co-operation of Labour
and Capital, landlord and tenant.”

I do not know if there are any such differences in the basic
conceptions of the East and West. Perhaps there are. But an
obvious difference in the recent past has been that the Indian
capitalist and landlord have ignored far more the interests of
their workers and tenants than their Western prototypes. There
has been practically no attempt on the part of the Indian land-
lord to interest himself in any social service for the tenants’
welfare. A Western observer, Mr. H. N. Brailsford, has re-
marked that "Indian usurers and landlords are the most
rapacious parasites to be found in any contemporary social
system.” 1 The fault, perhaps, is not the Indian landlord's. Cir-
cumstances have been too much for him and he has gone down
progressively, and is now in a difficult position from which he
can hardly extricate himself. Many landlords have been de-
prived of their lands by moneylenders and the smaller ones

1 H. N. Brailsford: Property or Peace f

J3$ JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

have sunk to the position of tenants in the land they once
owned. These moneylenders from the city advanced money on
mortgages and foreclosed, and blossomed out into zamindars,
and, according to Gandhiji, they are now the trustees for the
unhappy people whom they have themselves dispossessed of
their lands, and are to be expected to devote their income
primarily for the welfare of their tenantry.

If the taluqardari system is good, why should it not be intro-
duced all over India? Large tracts of India have peasant pro-
prietors. I wonder if Gandhiji would be agreeable to the
creation of large zamindaris and taluquas in Gujrat? I imagine
not. But then why is one land system good for the U.P. or
Behar or Bengal, and another for Gujrat and the Punjab? Pre-
sumably there is not any vital difference between the people of
the north and east and west and south of India, and their basic
conceptions are the same. It comes to this, then, that whatever
is should continue, the status quo should be maintained. There
should be no economic enquiry as to what is most desirable or
beneficial for the people, no attempts to change present con-
ditions; all that is necessary is to change the people’s hearts.
That is the pure religious attitude to life and its problems. It
has nothing to do with politics or economics or sociology. And
yet Gandhiji goes beyond this in the political, national, sphere.

Such are some of the paradoxes that face India to-day. We
have managed to tie ourselves up into a number of knots, and
it is difficult to get on till we untie them. That release will not
come emotionally. What is better, Spinoza asked long ago:
" Freedom through knowledge and understanding, or emotional
bondage? ” He preferred the former.

LXIII

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION

Sixteen years ago Gandhiji impressed India with his doctrine
of non-violence. Ever since then it has dominated the Indian
horizon. Vast numbers of people have repeated it unthinkingly
but with approval, some have wrestled with it and then accepted
it, with or without reservation, some have openly jeered at it. It
has played a major part in our political and social life, and it
has also attracted a great deal of attention in the wider world.
The doctrine is of course almost as old as human thought, but
perhaps Gandhiji was the first to apply it on a mass scale to
political and social movements. Formerly it was an individual
affair and was thus essentially religious. It was the restraint of
the individual and his attempt to achieve complete disinter-
estedness and thus to raise himself above the level of worldly
conflict and attain a kind of personal freedom and salvation.
There was no idea behind it of dealing with the larger serial
problems and of changing social conditions, except very indi-
rectly and remotely. There was almost an acceptance of the
existing social fabric with all its inequality and injustice.
Gandhiji tried to make this individual ideal into a social group
ideal. He was out to change political conditions as well as
social; and deliberately, with this end in view, he applied the
non-violent method on this wider and wholly different plane.
“Those who have to bring about radical changes in human
conditions and surroundings,” he has written, “cannot do it
except by raising a ferment in society. There are only two
methods of doing this, violent and non-violent. Violent pressure
is felt on the physical being and it degrades him who uses it as
it depresses the victim, but non-violent pressure exerted through
self-suffering, as by fasting, works in an entirely different way.
It touches not the phyiscal body but it touches anci strengthens
the moral fibre of those against whom it is directed.” 1

The idea was to some extent in harmony with Indian thought
and it was accepted, superficially at least, with enthusiasm by
the country. Very few realised the far-reaching implications
that lay behind it, and the few who did so rather vaguely took
refuge in faith and action. But, when the tempo of action

1 Extracts from statement made b* Gandhiji on December 4, 1932
on the occasion of one of his fasts.

557

53® JAWAHAKLAL NEHRU

slackened, innumerable questions arose in the minds of some
people, and it was extraordinarily difficult to find answers to
them. These questions did not affect the immediate course that
had to be followed in politics. Rather they dealt with the whole
philosophy that lay behind this idea of non-violent resistance.
In a political sense the non-violent movement has not succeeded
so far, for India is still held in the vice-like grip of imperialism.
In a social sense it has not even envisaged a radical change.
And yet any one with the slightest penetration can see that it
has worked a remarkable change in India’s millions. It has
given them character, strength and self-reliance — precious gifts
without which any progress, political or social, is difficult to
achieve or to retain. How far these undoubted gains are due to
non-violence or to the fact of conflict itself, it is difficult to say.
Such gains have been achieved by various peoples on numerous
occasions through violent conflict. Yet it may be said, I think
with confidence, that the non-violent method has been of ines-
timable value to us in this respect. It has definitely helped in
raising that 1 ferment in society ’ to which Gandhiji refers,
though undoubtedly that ferment was due to basic causes and
conditions. It has brought about that quickening process in the
masses that precedes revolutionary change.

That is an obvious point in its favour, but it does not carry us
far. The real questions remain unanswered. Unfortunately
Gandhiji does not help us much in solving the problem. He has
written and spoken on innumerable occasions on the subject,
but, so far as I know, he has never considered in public all its
implications, philosophically or scientifically . 1 He lays stress
on the means being more important than the end, of conversion
being better than coercion, and there is a tendency to identify
non-violence with truth and all goodness. Indeed he often uses
the terms as if they were synonymous. There is also the ten-
dency to consider all those who may not agree with this as
outside the pale of the elect and as having offended against
the moral law. In the case of some of his followers this
translates itself inevitably into a feeling of self-righteousness.

Those of us who are not fortunate enough to have this faith
are, however, troubled with a host of doubts. These doubts
do not relate so much to immediate necessities, but to the
mind’s desire for some consistent philosophy of action which is
both moral from the individual view-point and is at the same

1 Richard B. Gregg in his The Power of Non-Violence has dis-
cussed the subject scientifically. His book is most interesting and
thought-provoking.

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION

539

time socially effective. I confess that these doubts have not left
me, and I see no satisfactory solution of the problem. I dislike
violence intensely, and yet I am full of violence myself and,
consciously or unconsciously, I am often attempting to coerce
others. And can anything be greater coercion than the psychic
coercion of Gandhiji which reduces many of his intimate fol-
lowers and colleagues to a state of mental pulp?

But the real question was: can national and social groups
imbibe sufficiently this individual creed of non-violence, for it
involved a tremendous rise of mankind in the mass to a high
level, of love and goodness? It is true that the only really
desirable ultimate ideal is to raise humanity to this level and to
abolish hatred and ugliness and selfishness. Whether that is
possible or not, even ultimately, may be a debatable question;
but without that to hope for life would almost become “ a tale
told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”
To attain this ideal, are we to work for it directly by preaching
these virtues, regardless of the obstructions which make it im-
possible of achievement and which encourage every contrary
tendency? Or must we not remove these obstructions first and
create a more suitable and more favourable environment for the
growth of love, beauty, goodness? Or can we combine the two
processes?

And then again is the line between violence and non-violence,
compulsion and conversion, so obvious? Often enough moral
force is a far more terrible coercive factor than physical violence.
And is non-violence synonymous with truth? What is truth is
an ancient question to which a thousand answers have been
given, and yet the question remains. But whatever it may be, it
cannot certainly be wholly identified with non-violence. Violence
itself, though bad, cannot be considered intrinsically immoral.
There are shades and grades of it and often it may be preferable
to something that is worse. Gandhiji himself has said that it is
better than cowardice, fear, and slavery, and a host of other evils
might be added to this list. It is true that usually violence is
associated with ill-will, but in theory at least this nfeed not always
be so. It is conceivable that violence may be based on goodwill
(that of a surgeon, for example) and anything that has this for
a basis can never be fundamentally immoral. After all, the final
tests of ethics and morality are goodwill and ill-will. Thus,
although violence is very often unjustifiable morally and may be
considered dangerous from that view-point, it need not always
be so.

All life is full of conflict and violence, and it seems to be true

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

54 °

that violence breeds violence and is thus not a way to overcome
it. And yet to forswear it altogether leads to a wnolly negative
attitude utterly out of touch with life itself. Violence is the very
life-blood of the modern State and social system. Without the
coercive apparatus of the State taxes would not be realised, land-
lords would not get their rents, and private property would
disappear. The law, with the help of its armed forces, excludes
others from the use of private property. The national State
itself exists because of offensive and defensive violence.

Gandhiji’s non-violence, it is true, is certainly not a* purely
negative affair. It is not non-resistance. It is non-violent resis-
tance, which is a very different thing, a positive and dynamic
method of action. It was not meant for those who meekly accept
the status quo. The very purpose for which it was designed was
to create 44 a ferment in society ” and thus to change existing
conditions. Whatever the motives of conversion behind it, in
practice it has been a powerful weapon of compulsion as well,
though that compulsion is exercised in the most civilised and
least objectionable manner. Indeed it is interesting to note that
Gandhiji actually used the word 1 compel * in his earlier writings.
Criticising the Viceroy’s (Lord Chelmsford’s) speech in 1920 on
the Punjab Martial Law wrongs, he wrote :

. . the speech his Excellency delivered at the time of the
opening of the Council shows to me a mental attitude which
makes association with him or his Government impossible for
self-respecting men.

"The remarks on the Punjab mean a flat refusal to grant
redress. He would have us to concentrate on the problems of the
immediate 4 future ’ I The immediate future is to compel repen-
tance on the part of the Government on the Punjab matter. Of
this there is no sign. On the contrary his Excellency resists the
temptation to reply to his critics, meaning thereby that he has
not changed his opinion on the many vital matters affecting the
honour of India. He is 4 content to leave the issues to the verdict
of history.’ Now this kind of language, in my opinion, is calcu-
lated further to inflame the Indian mind. Of what use can a
favourable verdict of history be to men who have been wronged
and who are still under the heels of officers who have shown
themselves utterly unfit to hold offices of trust and responsi-
bility? The plea tor co-operation is, to say the least, hypocritical
in the face of the determination to refuse justice to the Punjab.”

Governments are notoriously based on violence, not only the
open violence of the armed forces, but the far more dangerous
violence, more subtly exercised, of spies, informers, agents pro -

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION 541

vocateurs , false propaganda, direct and indirect through educa-
tion, Press, etc., religious and other forms of fear, economic
destitution and starvation. As between two governments it is
taken for granted that every manner of falsehood and treachery
is justified, provided it is not found out, even in peace-time and
much more so in war-time. Three hundred years ago Sir Henry
Wotton, a poet and himself a British ambassador, defined an
ambassador as “ an honest man sent to lie abroad for the good
of his country.” Nowadays ambassadors are supported by mili-
tary, naval and commercial attaches whose chief function is to
spy in the country to which they are sent. Behind them functions
the vast network of the secret service, with its innumerable
ramifications and webs of intrigue and deception, its spies and
counter-spies, its connections with the underworld of crime, its
bribery and degradation of human nature, its secret murders. Bad
as all this is in peace-time, war gives it enormous importance and
its baneful influence spreads in every direction. It is astonishing
to read now of some of the instances of propaganda during the
World War, the amazing falsehoods spread about enemy
countries, the vast sums spent on this and on the secret services.
But peace to-day is itself merely an interval between two wars,
a preparation for war, and to some extent a continuation of the
conflict in economic and other spheres. There is a continuous
tug-of-war between the victors and the vanquished, between the
imperialist powers and their colonial dependencies, between the
privileged classes and the exploited classes. The war atmosphere,
with all its accompaniments of violence and falsehood, continues
in some measure therefore even during so-called peace-time, and
both the soldier and the civilian official are trained to meet this
situation. Lord Wolseley writes in the Soldier’s Pocket-Book for
Field Service : “ We will keep hammering along with the con-
viction that ‘ honesty is the best policy \ and that truth always
wins in the long run. These pretty sentences do well for a child’s
copy-book, but the man who acts upon them in war had better
sheathe his sword for ever.”

Under present conditions with nation against nation and class
against class this basis of violence and falsehood seems almost
inevitable. Privileged nations and groups, desirous of holding on
to their power and privileges and denying those whom they
oppress the opportunities of growth, must rely on violence, coer-
cion and falsehood. It may be possible, as public opinion grows
and the realities of these conflicts and their suppression become
more manifest, for the violence to be toned down. As a matter
of fact all recent experience points to the contrary, and violence

54* JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

has grown as the challenge to existing institutions has gained
weight. Even when outward violence has been toned down, it
has taken subtler and more dangerous forms. Neither the growth
of reason nor of the religious outlook nor morality have checked
in any way this tendency to violence. Individuals have pro-
gressed and gone up in the human scale, and probably there are
rar more of these higher-type individuals (the highest type
excepted) in the world to-day than at any previous period of
history; society as a whole has progressed, and to a very small
extent begun to attempt the control of the primitive and bar-
barian instincts. But on the whole groups and communities have
not improved greatly. The individual in becoming more civilised
has passed on many of his primitive passions and vices to the
community, and as violence always attracts the morally second-
rate, the leaders of these communities are seldom their best men
and women.

But even if we assume that the worst forms of violence will be
gradually removed from the State, it is impossible to ignore the
fact that both government and social life necessitate some
coercion. Social life necessitates some form of government, and
the men so placed in authority must curb and prevent all indi-
vidual or group tendencies which are inherently selfish and likely
to injure society. Usually they go much further than necessary,
for power corrupts and degrades. So that however much those
rulers may love liberty and hate coercion, they will have to
exercise coercion on recalcitrant individuals, till such time when
every human being in that State is perfect, wholly unselfish, and
devoted to the common good. The rulers of that State will also
have to exercise coercion on outside groups who make predatory
attacks, that is to say they will have to defend themselves, meet-
ing force with force. The necessity for this will only disappear
when there is only a single World-State.

If force and coercion are thus necessary both for external
defence and internal cohesion, where is one to draw the line?
Once this fateful concession is made of ethics to politics, Rein-
hold Neibuhr points out, 1 and coercion is accepted as a necessary
instrument of spcial cohesion, it is not possible to make absolute
distinctions between non-violent and violent types of coercion, or
between the coercion used by governments and that used by
revolutionaries.

I do not know for certain, but I imagine that Gandhiji will
admit that in, this imperfect world a national State will h. ve to

1 In Moral Man and Immoral Society.

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION 543

use force to defend itself against unprovoked attack from out-
side. Of course the State should allow an absolutely peaceful and
friendly policy to its neighbour and other States, but nevertheless
it is absurd to deny the possibility of attack. The State will also
have to pass some laws of a coercive nature, in the sense that they
take away some rights and privileges from various classes and
groups and restrict liberty of action. All laws are to some extent
coercive. The Karachi programme of the Congress lays down
that fi In order to end the exploitation of the masses, political
freedom must include real economic freedom of the starving
millions.” To give effect to this desirable sentiment the over-
privileged will have to give up much to the under-privileged.
Further, it is laid down that workers must have a living wage and
various other amenities; that special taxes will be charged on
property; that “ the State shall own or control key industries and
services, mineral resources, railways, waterways, shipping and
other means of public transport.” Also that “ intoxicating drinks
and drugs shall be totally prohibited.” All this is likely to be
objected to by considerable numbers of people. They may sub-
mit to the will of the majority, but that will be because they are
afraid of the consequences of disobedience. Democracy indeed
means the coercion of the minority by the majority.

If a law affecting property rights or abolishing them to a large
extent is passed by a majority, is that to be objected to because
it is coercion? Manifestly not, because the same procedure is
followed in the adoption of all democratic laws. Objection, there-
fore, cannot be taken on the ground of coercion. It might be
said that the majority was acting wrongly or immorally. The
question to be considered then is : whether the law as passed by
a majority offended any ethical principle. Who is to decide this?
If individuals and groups are allowed to interpret ethics in
accordance with their own interests, there is an end of demo-
cratic procedure. Personally I feel that the institution of private
property (except in a very restricted sense) gives dangerous power
to individuals over society as a whole, and is therefore very harm-
ful to society. I consider it immoral, far more so than drink,
which harms the individual more than society.

I have been told, however, by some people who claim to believe
in the doctrine of non-violence that to attempt to nationalise
private property, except with the consent of the owners thereof,
would be coercion, and as such opposed to non-violence. Indeed
this view-point has been impressed upon me by big zamindars,
who do not scruple to take the aid of the State in forcibly
collecting their rents; and capitalists, owning many factories.

544 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

who will not even permit independent labour unions to exist in
their domains. The fact that a majority of the people affected
desires the change is not considered enough, the very people who
stand to lose by it should be converted. Thus a few interested
parties can hold up an obviously desirable change.

If there is one thing that history shows it is this : that economic
interests shape the political views of groups and classes. Neither
reason nor moral considerations override these interests. Indi-
viduals may be converted, they may surrender their special
privileges, although this is rare enough, but classes and groups
do not do so. The attempt to convert a governing and privileged
class into forsaking power and giving up its unjust privileges has
therefore always so far failed, and there seems to be no reason
whatever to hold that it will succeed in the future. Reinhold
Niebuhr in his book 1 directs his argument against the moralists
“who imagine that the egoism of individuals is being pro-
gressively checked by the development of rationality or the
growth of a religiously inspired goodwill, and that nothing but
the continuance of this process is necessary to establish social
harmony between all the human societies and collectives.” These
moralists “‘disregard the political necessities in the struggle for
justice in human society by failing to recognise those elements
in man’s collective behaviour which belong to the order of
nature and can never be brought completely under the dominion
of reason or conscience. They do not recognise that when col-
lective power, whether in the form of imperialism or class
domination, exploits weakness, it can never be dislodged unless
power is raised against it.” And again : “ Since reason is always,
to some degree, the servant of interest in a social situation, social
justice cannot be resolved by moral or rational suasion alone. . . .
Conflict is inevitable, and in this conflict power must be chal-
lenged by power.”

To think, therefore, in terms of pure conversion of a class or
nation or of the removal of conflict by rational argument and
appeals to justice, is to delude oneself. It is an illusion to imagine
that a dominant imperialist Power will give up its domination
over a country, or that a class will give up its superior position
and privileges unless effective pressure, amounting to coercion,
is exercised.

Gandhiji obviously wants to apply that pressure, though he
does not call it coercion. According to him, his method is self-
suffering. It is a little difficult to consider this, as there is a

1 Moral Man and Immoral Society.

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION 545

metaphysical element in it and it does not yield to measurement
or any other material approach. That it has considerable effect
on the opponent is undoubted. It exposes his moral defences, it
unnerves him, it appeals to the best in him, it leaves the door
open for conciliation. There can be no doubt that the approach
of love and self-suffering has powerful psychic reactions on the
adversary as well as on the onlookers. Most shikaris know that it
makes a difference how one approaches a wild animal. He seems
to sense the aggressive spirit from afar and reacts to it. Even
a suspicion of fear in the man, hardly realised by him, is con-
veyed somehow to the animal and makes him afraid, and in this
fear he attacks. If the nerve of a lion-tamer fail him for an
instant there is immediate danger of his being attacked. An
absolutely fearless man is seldom in danger from wild animals
unless some untoward accident occurs. It seems natural, there-
fore, that human beings should be susceptible to these psychic
influences. But though individuals may be affected, it is doubtful
if a class or group is affected. That class, as a class, does not
come into personal and intimate contact with the other party;
even the reports it hears are partial and distorted. And, in any
event, its automatic reaction of anger against any group that
challenges its position is so great that all minor feelings are
swallowed up in it. Having for long accustomed itself to the
notion that its superior position and privileges were necessary
for the good of society, any contrary opinion savours of heresy.
Law and order and the maintenance of the status quo become
the chief virtues, and attempts to challenge them the chief sins.

So that, so far as the opposite group is concerned, the process
of conversion does not go far. Indeed sometimes the very
mildness and saintliness of their adversary makes them angrier
still, for it seems to put them in the wrong; and when a person
begins to suspect that he might be in the wrong, his virtuous
indignation grows. Nevertheless, a non-violent technique does
affect odd individuals on the other side, and thereby weakens
the solidity of opposition. Even more so it gains the sympathy
of neutrals and is a powerful means of influencing world
opinion. But here again there is the probability of the governing
group preventing the news from going out or of distorting it,
because it controls the agencies of publicity and can thus prevent
the real facts from being known. The most potent and far-
reaching effect of the non-violent method is, however, on the
large numbers of more or less indifferent people of the country
in which this technique is practised. They are certainly con-
verted and often become enthusiasts in its favour, but then they

546 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

did not require much conversion as they generally approved of
the object aimed at. The effect is not so obvious on those who
dread the change. The rapid spread of non-co-operation and
civil disobedience in India was a demonstration or how a non-
violent movement exercises a powerful influence on vast numbers
and converts many waverers. It did not convert to any marked
extent those who were ab initio hostile to it. Indeed the success
of the movement increased their fears and made them even
more hostile.

If it is once admitted that a State is justified in using violence
to defend its freedom, it is difficult to understand why it is not
equally justified in adopting violent and coercive methods in
trying to achieve that freedom. A violent method may be unde-
sirable and inexpedient, but it would not be wholly unjustifiable
and barred. The mere fact that a government happens to be
the dominant faction controlling the armed forces does not give
it a greater right to the use of violence. In the event of a non-
violent revolution succeeding and controlling the State, does it
immediately acquire the right to use violence, which it did not
possess before? If there is an insurrection against its authority,
how is it going to meet it? It will naturally be disinclined to use
violent methods, and will try every peaceful way to meet the
situation, but it cannot give up the right to use violence. There
are sure to be disaffected elements in the population opposed to
the change, and they will try to go back to the previous condi-
tion. If they think that their violence will not be checked by
the coercive apparatus of the new State, they are all the more
likely to indulge in it. It seems, therefore, that it is quite im-
possible to draw a hard and fast line between violence and non-
violence, coercion and conversion. The difficulty is real enough
in considering political changes, it becomes far worse as between
privileged and exploited classes.

To suffer for an ideal has always commanded admiration; to
submit to suffering for a cause without giving in or hitting back
has a nobility and grandeur in it which force recognition. And
yet there is only a thin line which divides this from suffering
for suffering’s sake, and this latter kind of self-suffering is apt to
become morbid and even a little degrading. If violence is often
sadistic, non-violence in its negative aspects at least is likely to
err on the other side. There is also always the possibility for
non-violence to be made a cloak for cowardice and inaction, as
wetl as the maintenance of the status quo.

During the past few years in India, ever since the idea of
radical social changes has assumed importance here, it has often

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION 547

been stated that such a change necessarily involves the use of
violence and cannot therefore be advocated. Class conflicts must
not be mentioned (however much they might exist) because they
jar on the vision of perfect co-operation and a non-violent pro-
gress to whatever goal might lie in the future. It is quite
possible that a solution of the social problem cannot be brought
about without violence at some stage, for it seems certain that
the privileged classes will not hesitate to use violence to maintain
their favoured position. But, in theory, if it is possible to bring
about a great political change by a non-violent technique, why
should it not be equally possible to affect a radical social change
by this method? If we can get political freedom and the elimi-
nation of British imperialism from India non-violently, why
should we not also solve the problem of the feudal princes and
landlords and other social problems in the same way, and estab-
lish a Socialist State? Whether all this is possible or not non-
violently is not so much the question. The point is that either
both of these objectives are possible of attainment non-violently
or neither. Surely it cannot be said that a non-violent method
can only be used against a foreign ruler. Prima facie it should be
far easier to use it within a country against indigenous selfish
interests and obstructionists, for the psychological effect on them
will be greater than elsewhere.

The recent tendency in India to condemn objectives and
policies simply because they are supposed to conflict with non-
violence seems to me an inversion of the right method of look-
ing at such problems. We took to the non-violent method
fifteen years ago because it promised to take us to our goal in the
most desirable and effective way. The goal was then apart from
non-violence; it was not a mere appendage or outcome of it. No
one could have said then that freedom or independence must
only be aimed at if they are attainable by non-violent means.
But now our goal itself is judged in terms of non-violence and
rejected if it does not seem to fit in with it. The idea of non-
violence is thus becoming an inflexible dogma which may not
be challenged. As such it is losing its spiritual appeal to the
intellect, and taking its place in the pigeon-holes of faith and
religion. It is even becoming a sheet-anchor for vested interests,
who exploit it to maintain the status quo.

This is unfortunate for, I do believe, the ideas of non-violent
resistance and the non-violent technique of struggle are of
great value to India as well as to the rest of the world, and
Gandhiji has done a tremendous service in forcing modern
thought to consider them. I believe they have a great future

548 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

before them. It may be that mankind is not sufficiently advanced
to adopt them in their entirety. “You offer your candle of
vision to the blind/' says a character in A.E/s Interpreters , " but
what use can it be to the blind except as a bludgeon? ” For the
present the vision may not materialise sufficiently, but like all
great ideas its influence will grow and it will more and more
affect our actions. Non-co-operation, the withdrawal of co-
operation from a State or society which is considered evil, is a
powerful and dynamic notion. Even if a handful of persons of
moral worth practise it, its effect spreads and goes on increasing.
With large numbers the external effect becomes more marked,
but there is a tendency for other factors to obscure the moral
issue. The extension of it seems to affect its intensity. The
collective man gradually pushes back the individual.

The stress, however, on pure non-violence has made it some-
thing remote and apart from life, and there is a tendency for
people either to accept it blindly and religiously or not at all.
The intellectual element has receded into the background. In
1920 it had a great effect on the Terrorists in India, and drew
many away from their ranks, and even those who remained
were held back by doubt and stopped their violent activities. It
has no such influence on them now. Even within the Congre is
ranks many of the vital elements who played a notable part in
the Non-Co-operation and Civil Disobedience movements, and in
all sincerity tried to live up to the implications of the non-violent
method, are now considered as heretics who have no business to
continue as Congressmen because they are not prepared to make
non-violence a creed and a religion, or to give up the only goal
they consider worth striving ror — a Socialist State with equal
justice and opportunity for all, a planned society which can only
come into existence with the abolition of most of the privileges
and property rights that exist to-day. Gandhiji, of course, con-
tinues to be a vital force whose non-violence is of a dynamic
and aggressive character, and no one knows when he might
again galvanise the country in a forward movement. With all
his greatness and his contradictions and power of moving
masses, he is above the usual standards. One cannot measure
him or judge him as we would others. But many of those who
claim to follow him tend to become ineffectual pacifists or non-
resisters of the Tolstoyan variety or just members of a narrow
sea, not in touch with life and reality. And they gather round
themselves quite a number of people who are interested in main-
taining the present order, and who take shelter under non-
violence for this purpose, Opportunism thus creeps in and the

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION 549

process of converting the adversary leads, in the interests of
non-violence, to one’s own conversion and lining up with the
adversary. When enthusiasm wanes and we weaken, there is
always a tendency to go back a little, to compromise, and it is
comforting to call this the art of winning over the opponent.
And sometimes we make this gain at the cost of our own old
colleagues. We deprecate their extravagances, their utterances
that irritate our new friends, and accuse them of breaking the
unity of our ranks. Instead of a real change of the social order,
stress is laid on charity and benevolence within the existing
system, the vested interests remaining where they were.

I am convinced that Gandhiji has done a great service to us by
stressing the importance of the means. And yet I feel sure that
the final emphasis must necessarily be on the end and goal in
view. Unless we can conceive that, clearly we can never be any-
thing but aimless wanderers, wasting our energies on unimpor-
tant side-issues. But the means cannot be ignored for, quite
apart from the moral side, they have a practical side. Bad and
immoral means often defeat the end in view or raise tremendous
new problems. And, after all, it is the means that a person adopts
and not the end he declares that enables us to judge him truly.
To adopt means that leads to needless conflict and to the piling
up of hatreds, is likely to make the achievement of the goal
more difficult and distant. End and means are indeed so inti-
mately connected that they can hardly be separated. Essentially,
therefore, the means must be such as lessen conflict and hatred
or, at any rate, try to limit them as far as possible (for they seem
to be inevitable), and to encourage goodwill. It becomes more
a question of motive and intention and temper than of any
particular method. It is on this basic motive that Gandhiji’s
stress has been, and if he has failed to change human nature to
any appreciable extent, he succeeded surprisingly in impressing
this motive on a great national movement involving millions.
His insistence on strict moral discipline was also very necessary,
though his standards of that individual discipline are perhaps
debatable. He attaches vast importance to the self-regarding sins
or failings and very little to social sins. The necessity for this
discipline is obvious, for the temptation to leave the wilderness
and join the privileged groups in the seats of power has drawn
away many a Congressman. For a noted Congressman the door
to that favoured land is always open.

The whole world is in the grip to-day of various crises, but
the greatest of these is the crisis of the spirit. This is especially
so in the East, for recent changes in Asia have been more rapid

550 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

than elsewhere and the process of adjustment is painful. The
political problem which seems to dominate the situation is
perhaps the least important of all, though it is the primary
problem for us, and it must be disposed of satisfactorily before
the real questions are tackled. For ages past we have been
accustomed to an almost unchanging basic social order, and
many of us still believe that it is the onlv possible and rightful
basis of society, and associate our moral notions with it. But
our attempts to fit in the past with the present fail, as they are
bound to do. “ In the last resort,” wrote Veblen, the American
economist, “the economic moralities wait on the economic
necessities.” The necessities of to-day will force us to formulate
a new morality in accordance with them. If we are to find a
way out of this crisis of the spirit and realise what are the true
spiritual values to-day, we shall have to face the issues frankly
and boldly and not take refuge under the dogmas of any reli-
gion. What religion says may be good or bad, but the way it
says it and wants us to believe it is certainly not conducive to an
intellectual consideration of any problem. As Freud has pointed
out, the dogmas of religion “deserve to be believed: firstly,
because our primal ancestors already believed them; secondly,
because we possess proofs, which have been handed down to us
from this very period of antiquity; and thirdly, because it is
forbidden to raise the question of their authenticity at all .” 1

If we consider non-violence and all it implies from the reli-
gious, dogmatic point of view there is no room for argument.
It reduces itself to the narrow creed of a sect which people may
or may not accept. It loses vitality and application to present-
day problems. But if we are prepared to discuss it in relation
to existing conditions it can help us greatly in our attempts to
refashion this world. This consideration must take into account
the nature and weaknesses of collective man. Any activity on a
mass scale, and especially any activity aiming at radical and
revolutionary changes, is affected not only by what the leaders
think of it but by existing conditions and, still more, by what
the human material they work with thinks about it.

Violence has played a great part in the world’s history. It is
to-day playing an equally important part, and probably it will
continue to do so for a considerable time. Most of the changes
in the past have been caused by violence and coercion. W. E.
Gladstone once said : “ I am sorry to say that if no instructions
had been addressed in political crises to the people of this

The Future of an Illusion .

CONVERSION OR COMPULSION 55 1

country except to remember to hate violence, to love order, and
to exercise patience, the liberties of this country would never
have been attained.”

It is impossible to ignore the importance of violence in the
past and present. To do so is to ignore life. Yet violence is un-
doubtedly bad and brings an unending trail of evil conse-
quences with it. And worse even than violence are the motives
of hatred, cruelty, revenge and punishment which very often
accompany violence. Indeed violence is bad not intrinsically,
but because of these motives that go with it. There can be
violence without these motives; there can be violence for a good
object as well as for an evil object. But it is extremely difficult
to separate violence from those motives, and therefore it is
desirable to avoid violence as far as possible. In avoiding it,
however, one cannot accept a negative attitude of submitting
to other and far greater evils. Submission to violence or the
acceptance of an unjust regime based on violence, is the very
negation of the spirit of non-violence. The non-violent method,
in order to justify itself, must be dynamic and capable of
changing such a regime or social order.

Whether it can do so or not I do not know. It can, I think,
carry us a long way, but I doubt if it can take us to the final
goal. In any event, some form of coercion seems to be inevit-
able, for people who hold power and privilege do not give them
up till they are forced to do so, or till conditions are created
which make it more harmful to them to keep these privileges
than to give them up. The present conflicts in society, national
as well as class conflicts, can never be resolved except by coer-
cion. Conversion, of course, there must be on a large scale, for
so lone as large numbers are not converted there can be no real
basis for a movement of social change. But coercion over some
will follow. Nor is it right for us to cover up these basic conflicts
and try to make out that they do not exist. That is not only a
suppression of the truth, but it directly leads to bolstering up
the existing order by misleading people as to the true facts, and
giving the ruling classes the moral basis which they are always
seeking in order to justify their special privileges. In order to
combat an unjust system the false premises on which it is based
must be exposed and the reality laid bare. One of the virtues
of non-co-operation is that it exposes these false premises and
lies by our refusal to submit to them or to co-operate in their
furtherance.

Our final aim can only be a classless society with equal
economic justice and opportunity for all, a society organised on

552 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

a planned basis for the raising of mankind to higher material
and cultured levels, to a cultivation of spiritual values, of co-
operation, unselfishness, the spirit of service, the desire to do
right, goodwill and love— ultimately a world order. Everything
that comes in the way will have to be removed, gently if pos-
sible, forcibly if necessary. And there seems to be little doubt
that coercion will often be necessary. But if force is used it
should not be in the spirit of hatred or cruelty, but with the
dispassionate desire to remove an obstruction. That will be
difficult. It is not an easy task; there is no easy way, and the
pitfalls are numerous. The difficulties and pitfalls do not dis-
appear by our ignoring them, but by realising their true nature
and facing them boldly. All this sounds fanciful and Utopian,
and it is highly unlikely that many people will be moved by
these noble motives. But we can keep them in view and stress
them, and it may be that gradually they will lessen the hatreds
and passions that fill most of us.

Our methods must lead to this goal and be based on these
motives. But we must also realise that human nature being
what it is, in the mass, it will not always respond to our appeals
and persuasions, or act in accordance with high moral prin-
ciples. Compulsion will often be necessary, in addition to con-
version, and the best we can do is to limit this compulsion and
use it in such a manner that its evil is lessened.

LXIV

DEHRA GAOL AGAIN

I was not flourishing in Alipore Gaol. My weight had gone
down considerably, and the Calcutta air and increasing heat
were distressing me. There were rumours of my transfer to a
better climate. On May 7th I was told to gather my belongings
and to march out of the gaol. I was being sent to Dehra Dun
Gaol. The drive through Calcutta in the cool evening air was
very pleasant after some months of seclusion, and the crowds at
the big Howrah station were fascinating.

I was glad of my transfer, and looked forward to Dehra Dun
with its near-by mountains. On arrival I found that all was not
as it used to be nine months earlier, when I had left it for Naini.
I was put in a new place, an old cattle-shed cleaned up and
fitted out.

As a cell it was not bad, and there was a little veranda
attached to it. There was also a small yard adjoining, about
fifty feet in length. The cell was better than the ancient
one I had had previously in Dehra, but soon I discovered that
other changes were not for the better. The surrounding wall,
which had been ten feet high, had just been raised, especially
for my benefit, by another four or five feet. The view of the
hills I had so looked forward to was completely cut off and I
could just see a few tree-tops. I was in this gaol for over three
months, and I never had even a glimpse of the mountains. I
was not allowed to walk outside in front of the gaol gate, as I
used to, and my little yard was considered quite big enough for
exercise.

These and other new restrictions were disappointing, and I felt
irritated. I grew listless and disinclined to take even the little
exercise that my yard allowed. I had hardly ever felt quite so
lonely and cut off from the world. The solitary* confinement
began to tell on my nerves, and physically and mentally I
declined. On the other side of the wall, only a few feet away, I
knew there was freshness and fragrance, the cool smell of grass
and soft earth, and distant vistas. But they were all out of
reach and my eyes grew weary and heavy, faced always by those
walls. There was not even the usual movement of prison life,
for I was kept apart and by myself.

After six weeks the monsoon broke and it rained in torrents;

553

55 4 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

we had twelve inches of rain during the first week. There was a
change in the air and whisperings of new life; the temperature
came down and the body felt relaxed and relieved. But there
was no relief for the eyes or the mind. Sometimes the iron door
of my yard would open to allow a warder to come in or go out,
and for a few seconds I had a sudden glimpse of the outside
world — green fields and trees, bright with colour and glistening
with pearly drops of rain— for a moment only, and then it all
vanished like a flash of lightning. The door was hardly ever
fully opened. Apparently the warders had instructions not to
open it if I was anywhere near, and even when they opened it,
to do so just a little. These brief glimpses of greenery and
freshness were hardly welcome to me. That sight produced in
me a kind of nostalgia, a heartache, and I would even avoid
looking out when the door opened.

But all this unhappiness was not really the fault of the gaol,
though it contributed to it. It was the reaction of outside events
— Kamala’s illness and my political worries. I was beginning to
realise that Kamala was again in the grip of her old disease,
and I felt helpless and unable to be of any service to her.
I knew that my presence by her side would have made a
difference.

Unlike Alipore, Dehra Dun Gaol allowed me a daily news-
paper, and I could keep in touch with political and other
developments outside. In Patna the All-India Congress Com-
mittee met after nearly three years (for most of this time it was
unlawful), and its proceedings were depressing. It surprised me
that no attempt was made at this first meeting, after so much
that had happened in India and the world, to analyse the situa-
tion, to have full discussions, to try to get out of old ruts.
Gandhiji seemed to be, from a distance, his old dictatorial self—
“ If you choose to follow my lead you have to accept my con-
ditions,” he said. His demand was perfectly natural, for one
could not both have him and ask him to act against his own
deeply-felt convictions. But there seemed too much of imposi-
tion from above and too little of mutual discussion and
hammering out a policy. It is curious how Gandhiji dominates
the mind and then complains of the helplessness of people.
Few people, I suppose, have had more loyal devotion and obedi-
ence on the mass-scale than he has had, and it seems hardly fair
to blame the masses for not coming up to the high standard he
had set for them. At the Patna meeting he did not even stay
till the end, as he had to continue his Harijan tour. He told the
A.I.C.C. to be business-like and to adopt the resolutions placed

DEHRA GAOL AGAIN

555

before them by the Working Committee with speed, and then
he went away.

It is probably true that prolonged discussions would not have
improved matters. There was a confusion and want of clarity
among the members, and though many were prepared to criti-
cise, there were hardly any constructive suggestions. Under the
circumstances this was natural, for the burden of the struggle
had largely fallen on these leaders from various provinces and
they were a little tired and mentally not fresh. Dimly it was felt
that they had to cry halt, civil disobedience had to oe stopped;
but what then? Two groups took shape: one desiring purely
constitutional activities through the legislatures, the other think-
ing rather vaguely along socialistic lines. The majority of the
members belonged to neither of these groups. They disliked a
reversion to constitutionalism, and at the same time socialism
frightened them a little and seemed to them to introduce an
element which might split their ranks. They had no construc-
tive ideas, and the one hope and sheet-ancnor they possessed
was Gandhiji. As of old, they turned to him and followed his
lead, even though many of them did not wholly approve of
what he said. Gandhiji's support of the moderate constitutional
elements gave them dominance in the Committee and the
Congress.

All this was to be expected. But the reaction took the Con-
gress further back than I had thought. At no time during the
last fifteen years, ever since the advent of non-co-operation, had
Congress leaders talked in this ultra-constitutional fashion.
Even the Swaraj Party of the middle 'twenties, which itself was
the result of a reaction, was far in advance of the new leader-
ship, and there were no such commanding personalities now as
the Swaraj Party had. Many persons who had studiously kept
aloof from the movement so long as it was risky to join it, now
streamed in and assumed importance.

The proscription of the Congress was ended by the Govern-
ment and it became a legal organisation. But many of its asso-
ciated and subsidiary bodies continued to be illegal, such as its
volunteer department, the Seva Dal, as also a number of Kisan
Sabhas, which were semi-independent peasant unions, and
several educational institutions and youth leagues, including a
children's organisation. In particular the 4 Khudai Khidmat-
gars’, or the Frontier Redshirts, as they are called, were still
outlawed. This organisation had become a regular part of the
Congress in 1931, and represented it in the Frontier Province.
Thus, although the Congress had completely drawn off the

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

556

direct action part of the struggle and had reverted to constitu-
tional ways, the Government kept on all the special laws meant
for civil disobedience, and even continued the proscription of
important parts of the Congress organisation. Special attention
was also paid to the suppression of peasant organisations and
labour unions, while, it was interesting to note, high Govern-
ment officials went about urging the zamindars and landlords
to organise themselves. Every facility was offered to these land-
lords’ organisations. The two major ones in the United Pro-
vinces have their subscriptions collected by official agency,
together with the revenue or taxes.

I am afraid I have never been partial to the Hindu or
Moslem communal organisations, but an incident made me feel
particularly bitter towards the Hindu Mahasabha. One of its
secretaries actually went out of the way to approve of the
continuation of the ban on the “ Redshirts ”, and to pat Govern-
ment on the back for it. This approval of the deprivation
of the most elementary of civil rights, at a time when there was
no aggressive movement on, amazed me. Apart from this ques-
tion of principle, it was well known that these Frontier people
had behaved wonderfully during these years of struggle; and
their leader, Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan, one of the bravest and
straightest men in India, was still in prison — a State prisoner
kept confined without any trial. It seemed to me that communal
bias could hardly go further, and I expected that more promi-
nent leaders of the Hindu Mahasabha would hasten to disown
their colleague on this matter. But, so far as I could discover,
not a single one of them said a word about it.

I was much upset by this Hindu Sabha secretary's statement.
It was bad enough in itself, but to my mind it appeared as a
symbol of the new state of affairs in the country. In the heat of
that summer afternoon I dozed off, and I remember having a
curious dream. Abdul Ghaffar Khan was being attacked on all
sides and I was fighting to defend him. I woke up in an ex-
hausted state, feeling very miserable, and my pillow was wet
with tears. This surprised me, for in my waking state I was not
liable to such emotional outbursts.

My nerves were obviously in a bad way in those days. My
sleep became troubled and disturbed, which was very unusual
for me, and all manner of nightmares came to me. Sometimes
I would shout out in my sleep. Once evidently the shouting had
been more vigorous than usual, and I woke up with a start to
find two gaol warders standing near my bed, rather worried at
my noises. I had dreamed that I was being strangled.

DEHRA GAOL AGAIN

557

About this time a resolution of the Congress Working Com-
mittee had also a painful effect on me. This resolution was
passed, it was stated, “ in view of the loose talk about the con-
fiscation of private property and necessity of class war ”, and it
proceeded to remind Congressmen that the Karachi Resolution
44 neither contemplates confiscation of private property without
just cause or compensation, nor advocacy of class war. The
Working Committee is further of the opinion that confiscation
and class war are contrary to the Congress creed of non-
violence ”. The resolution was loosely worded and exhibited a
certain amount of ignorance on the part of the framers as to
what class war was. It was obviously aimed at the newly formed
Congress Socialist Party. There had, as a matter of fact, been
no talk of confiscation on the part of any responsible member
of this group; there had, however, been frequent reference to
the existence of class war under present conditions. The Work-
ing Committee’s resolution seemed to hint that any person be-
lieving in the existence of this class conflict could not even be
an ordinary member of the Congress. Nobody had ever accused
the Congress of having turned Socialist or of being against
private property. Some members of it held those opinions, but
now it appeared that they had no place even in the rank and
file of this all-embracing national organisation.

It had often been stated that the Congress represented the
nation, including every group and interest in it, from prince to
pauper. National movements frequently make that claim, mean-
ing thereby presumably that they represent the great majority
of the nation and that their policy is for the good of all in-
terests. But the claim is on the face of it untenable, for no
political organisation can represent conflicting interests without
reducing itself to a flabby and unmeaning mass with no distinc-
tive and distinguishing features. The Congress is either a
political party with a definite (or vague) aim and philosophy of
achieving political power and of utilising it for the national
good, or it is just a benevolent and humanitarian organisation
with no views of its own and wishing well to everybody. It can
represent only those who are in general agreement with that
aim and philosophy, and those who oppose this are likely to be
considered by it as anti-national or anti-social and reactionary
elements whose influence must be checked or eliminated, in
order to give effect to its own philosophy. It is true that a
national anti-imperialist movement offers a wide basis for agree-
ment, as it does not touch the social conflicts. And so the
Congress did represent in varying degrees the vast majority of

558 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

the people of India, and it drew within its fold all manner of
mutually differing groups who agreed only on the anti-
imperialist issue, and even in regard to this there were great
differences in stress. Those who, on this basic issue of anti-
imperialism, held a contrary opinion kept out of the Congress
and sided, also in varying degrees, with the British Government.
The Congress thus became a kind of permanent All-Parties
Congress, consisting of large numbers of groups shading into
each other and held together by one common faith and the
dominating personality of Gandhiji.

The Working Committee subsequently tried to explain its
resolution .on class war. The importance of that resolution lay
not so much in its language or what it definitely laid down, as
in the fact that it was yet another indication of the way Con-
gress was going. The resolution had obviously been inspired by
the new parliamentary wing of the Congress aiming at gaining
the support of men of property in the coming election to the
Legislative Assembly. At their instance the Congress was look-
ing more and more to the Right and trying to win over the
moderate and conservative elements in the country. Soothing
words were being addressed even to those who had been hostile
to the Congress movements in the past and had sided with the
Government during the continuance of civil disobedience. A
clamorous and critical Left wing was felt to be a handicap in
this process of conciliation and ‘ conversion and the Working
Committee’s resolution, as well as many other individual utter-
ances, made it clear that the Congress Executive were not going
to be moved from their new path by this nibbling from the Left.
If the Left did not behave it would be sat upon and eliminated
from the Congress ranks. The manifesto issued by the Parlia-
mentary Board of the Congress contained a programme which
was far more cautious and moderate than any that the Congress
had sponsored during the past fifteen years.

The Congress leadership, quite apart even from Gandhiji, con-
sisted of many well-known persons with bright records in the
national struggle for freedom, men honoured throughout the
country for their integrity and fearlessness. But the new orienta-
tion of policy brought into the second ranks, and even the
front rank, of Congress many individuals who could hardly be
described as idealists In the Congress ranks there were, of
course, large numbers of idealists, but the door for careerists
and opportunists was now more open than it had ever been
before. Apart from Gandhiji’s enigmatical and elusive person-
ality, which dominated the scene, the Congress seemed to

DEHRA GAOL AGAIN

559

possess two faces : a purely political side was developing like a
caucus, and the other aspect was that of a prayer meeting, full
of pietism and sentimentality.

On the Government side there was an air of triumph, in no
way concealed, at what they considered the success of their
policy in suppressing civil disobedience and its offshoots. The
operation had been successful, and for the moment it mattered
little whether the patient lived or died. They proposed to con-
tinue the same policy, with minor variations, even though the
Congress had been for the moment brought round to some
extent. They knew that such changes in national policy could
only be temporary so long as the basic problem remained, and
any relaxation on their part might lead to a more rapid growth
than otherwise. Perhaps they also thought that in continuing to
suppress the more advanced elements in the Congress or in the
labour and peasant ranks, they would not greatly offend the
more cautious leaders of the Congress.

To some extent my thoughts in Dehra Dun Gaol ran along
these channels. I was really not in a position to form definite
opinions about the course of events, for I was out of touch. In
Alipore I had been almost completely out of touch, in Dehra
a newspaper of the Government’s choice brought me partial
and sometimes one-sided news. It is quite possible that contacts
with my colleagues outside and a closer study of the situation
would have resulted in my varying my opinions in some degree.

Distressed with the present, I began thinking of the past, of
what had happened politically in India since I began to take
some part in public affairs. How far had we been right in what
we had done? How far wrong? It struck me that my thinking
would be more orderly and helpful if I put it down on paper.
This would also help in engaging my mind in a definite task
and so diverting it from worry and depression. So in the month
of June 1934 I began this ‘autobiographical narrative’ in
Dehra Gaol, and for the last eight months I have continued it
when the mood to do so has seized me. Often there have been
intervals when I felt no desire to write; three of tKese gaps were
each of them nearly a month long. But I managed to continue,
and now I am nearing the end of this personal journey. Most
of this has been written under peculiarly distressing circum-
stances when I was suffering from depression and emotional
strain. Perhaps some of this is reflected in what I have written,
but this very writing helped me greatly to pull myself out of
the present with all its worries. As I wrote, I was hardly think-
ing of an outside audience; I was addressing myself framing

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

J&>

questions and answering them for my own benefit, sometimes
even drawing some amusement from it. I wanted as far as
possible to think straight, and I imagined that this review of
the past might help me to do so.

Towards the end of July, Kamala’s condition rapidly de-
teriorated, and within a few days became critical. On August
1 1 th I was suddenly asked to leave Dehra Gaol, and that night
I was sent under police escort to Allahabad. The next evening
we reached Prayag station in Allahabad and there I was in-
formed by the District Magistrate that I was being released
temporarily so that I might visit my ailing wife. It was six
months to a day from the time of my arrest.

LXV

ELEVEN DAYS

For the Sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast.

Byron.

My release was temporary. I was given to understand that it
was for a day or two or for such longer period as the doctbrs
might think absolutely necessary. It was a peculiar positipn,
full of uncertainty, and it was not possible for me to settle
down to anything. A fixed period would have enabled me to
know how I stood, and I would have tried to adjust myself to
it. As it was, any day, at any moment, I might De taken back
to prison.

The change was sudden and I was wholly unprepared for
it. From solitary confinement to a crowded house with doctors,
nurses, and relatives. My daughter Indira had also come from
Santiniketan. Many friends were continually coming to see me
and enquire after Kamala's health. The style of living was
quite different; there were home comforts, better food. And
colouring all this background was anxiety for Kamala's serious
condition.

There she lay frail and utterly weak, a shadow of herself,
struggling feebly with her illness, and the thought that she
might leave me became an intolerable obsession. It was
eighteen and a half years since our marriage, and my mind
wandered back to that, day and to all that these succeeding
years had brought us. I was twenty-six at the time and she
was about seventeen, a slip of a girl, utterly unsophisticated
in the ways of the world. The difference in our ages was con-
siderable, but greater still was the difference in our mental out-
look, for I was far more grown-up than she was. A'nd yet with
all my appearance of worldly wisdom I was very boyish, and
I hardly realised that this delicate, sensitive girl’s mind was
slowly unfolding like a flower and required gentle and careful
tending. We were attracted to each other and got on well
enough, byt our backgrounds were different and there was a
want of adjustment. These maladjustments would sometimes
lead to friction and there were many petty quarrels over
trivialities, boy-and-girl affairs which did not last long and
t 5*‘

56a JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

ended in a quick reconciliation. Both had a quick temper, a
sensitive nature, and a childish notion of keeping one’s dignity.
In spite of this our attachment grew, though the want of ad-
justment lessened only slowly. Twenty-one months after our
marriage, Indira, our daughter and only child, arrived.

Our marriage had altnost coincided with new developments
in politics, and my absorption in them grew. They were the
Home Rule days, and soon after came Martial Law in the
Punjab and Non-Co-operation, and more and more I was in-
volved in the dust and tumble of public affairs. So great
became my concentration in these activities that, all uncon-
sciously, I almost overlooked her and left her to her own
resources, just when she required my full cooperation. My
affection for her continued and even grew, and it was a great
comfort to know that she was there to help me with her sooth-
ing influence. She gave me strength, but she must have suf-
fered and felt a little neglected. An unkindness to her would
almost have been better than this semi-forgetful, casual attitude.

And then came her recurring illness and my long absences in

E rison, when we could only meet at gaol interviews. The Civil
disobedience movement brought her in the front rank of our
fighters, and she rejoiced when she too went to prison. We grew
ever nearer to each other. Our rare meetings became precious,
and we looked forward to them and counted the days that in-
tervened. We could not get tired of each other or stale, for
there was always a freshness and novelty about our meetings
and brief periods together. Each of us was continually making
fresh discoveries in the other, though sometimes perhaps the
new discoveries were not to our liking. Even our grown-up
disagreements had something boyish and girlish about them.

After eighteen years of married life she had still retained her
girlish and virginal appearance; there was nothing matronly
about her. Almost she might have been the bride that came to
our house so long ago. But I had changed vastly, and though
I was fit and supple and active enough tor my age — and, I was
told, I still possessed some boyish traits — my looks betrayed
me. I was partly bald and my hair was grey, lines and furrows
crossed my face and dark shadows surrounded my eyes. The
last four years with their troubles and worries had left many
a mark on me. Often, in these later years when Kamala and
I had gone out together in a strange place, she was mistaken,
to my embarrassment, for my daughter. She and Indira looked
like two sisters.

Eighteen years of married lifel But how many long years

ELEVEN DAYS

563

out of them had I spent in prison-cell, and Kamala in hos-.
pitals and sanatoria? And now again I was serving a prison
sentence and out just for a few days, and she was lying ill,
struggling for life. 1 felt a little irritated at her for her care-
lessness about her health. And yet how could I blame her,
for her eager spirit fretted at her inaction and her inability to take
her full share in the national struggle. Physically unable to do
so, she could neither take to worK properly nor to treatment,
and the fire inside her wore down the body.

Surely she was not going to leave me now when I needed her
most? Why, we had just begun fo know and understand each
other really; our joint life was only now properly beginning.
We relied so much on each other, we had so much to do
together.

So I thought as I watched her from day to day and hour
to hour.

Colleagues and friends came to see me. They told me of much
that had happened of which I was unaware. They discussed
current political problems and asked me questions. I found it
difficult to answer them. It was not easy for my mind to get
away from Kamala’s illness, and after the isolation and detach-
ment of gaol I was not in a position to face concrete questions
suddenly. Long experience had taught me that it is not pos-
sible to appraise a situation from the limited information
available in gaol. Personal contacts were necessary for a proper
mental reaction, otherwise the expression of opinion was likely
to be purely academic and divorced from reality. It seemed
also unfair to Gandhiji and my old colleagues of the Congress
Working Committee for me to say anything definite regarding
Congress policy before I had had the opportunity to discuss
everything with them. My mind was full of criticisms of much
that had been done, but I was not prepared to make any
positive suggestions. Not expecting to come out of prison just
then I had not thought along these lines.

I had also a feeling that in view of the courtesy shown by
the Government in allowing me to come to my wife, it would
not be proper for me to take advantage of this for political
purposes. I had given no undertaking or assurance to avoid
any such activity, nevertheless I was continually being pulled
back by this idea.

I avoided issuing any public statements except to contradict
false rumours. Even m private I refrained from committing
myself to any definite line of policy, but I was free enough
with my criticisms of past events. The Congress Socialist Party

564 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

had recently come into existence, and many of my intimate
colleagues were associated with it. So far as I had gathered, its
general policy was agreeable to me, but it seemed a curious and
mixed assemblage and, even if I had been completely free, I
would not have suddenly joined it. Local politics took up some
of my time, for in Allahabad, as in several other places, there
had Deen an extraordinarily virulent campaign during the
elections for the local Congress Committees. No principles were
involved, it was purely a question of personalities, and I was
asked to help in settling some of the personal quarrels that had
arisen.

I had no desire whatever to go into these matters, nor had I
the time. In spite of this some of the facts came to my notice
and caused me great distress. It was surprising that people
should get so vastly excited over local Congress elections.
Among the most prominent were those who had retired during
the struggle for various private reasons. With the withdrawal
of civil disobedience those reasons ceased to have weight, and
they emerged suddenly and carried on a fierce and often vulgar
campaign against each other. It was extraordinary how the
ordinary canons of decency were forgotten in the passionate
desires to down the other party. I was especially grieved at the
fact that Kamala’s name and even her illness had been ex-
ploited for the purposes of these local elections.

Among the wider questions that were discussed was the
Congress decision to contest the coming elections to the Legisla-
tive Assembly. Many of the younger groups opposed this
decision because they thought it was a return to parliamentary
and compromising methods, but they suggested no effective
alternative. Some of these opponents on grounds of high
principle had, curiously enough, no objection to organisations
other than the Congress running the elections. Their object
seemed to be to leave the field clear to communal organisations.

I felt disgusted with the local squabble and the kind of
politics which were rapidly developing. I felt out of tune with
them and a stranger in my own city of Allahabad. What could
I do, I wondered, in this environment when the time came for
me to attend to such matters?

I wrote to Gandhiji about Kamala’s condition. As I thought
I would be going back to prison soon and might have no other
chance to do so, I gave him also some glimpse into my mind.
Recent events had embittered and distressed me greatly, and
my letter carried a faint reflection of this. I did not attempt
to suggest what should be done or what should not be done;

ELEVEN DATS

s*s

all I did was to interpret some of my reactions to what had
happened. It was a letter full of barely suppressed emotion,
and I learnt subsequently that it pained Gandhi ji considerably.

Day after day went by and I waited for the summons to
prison or some other intimation from Government. From time
to time I was informed that further directions would be issued
the next day or the day after. Meanwhile the doctors were
asked to send a daily bulletin of my wife's condition to Govern-
ment. JKamala had slightly improved since my arrival.

It was generally believed, even by those who are usually in
the confidence of the Government, that I would have been fully
discharged but for two impending events — the full session of
the Congress that was taking place in October in Bombay and
the Assembly Elections in November. Out of prison I might
be a disturbing factor at these, and so it seemed probable that
I might be sent back to prison for another three months and
then discharged. There was also the possibility of my not
being sent back to gaol, and this possibility seemed to grow as
the days went by. I almost decided to settle down.

It was the eleventh day after my release, August 23rd. The
police car drove up and the police officer came up to me and
told me that my time was up and I had to accompany him to
Naini Prison. I bade good-bye to my people. As I was getting
into the police car my ailing mother ran up again to me with
arms outstretched. That face of hers haunted me for long.

LXVI

BACK TO PRISON

Shadow is itself unrestrained in its path while sunshine,
as an incident of its very nature, is pursued a hundredfold
by nuance. Thus is sorrow from happiness a thing apart;
the scope of happiness, however, is hampered by the aches
and hurts of endless sorrows.

Rajatarangini. 1

I was back again in Naini Prison, and I felt as if I was starting
a fresh term of imprisonment. In and out, out and in; what a
shuttlecock I had become! This switching on and off shook
up the whole system emotionally and it was not easy to adjust
onself to repeated changes. I had expected to be put in my old
cell at Naini to which a previous long stay had accustomed
me. There were some flowers there, originally planted by my
brother-in-law, Ranjit Pandit, and a good veranda. But this
old Barrack No. 6 was occupied by a detenu, a State prisoner,
kept confined without trial or conviction. It was not considered
desirable for me to associate with him, and I was therefore
placed in another part of the gaol which was much more closed
m and was devoid of flowers or greenery.

But the place where I spent my days and nights mattered
little, for my mind was elsewhere. I feared that the little im-
provement that had taken place in Kamala’s condition would
not stand the shock of my re-arrest. And so it happened. For
some days it was arranged to supply me in prison with a very
brief doctor’s bulletin daily. This came by a devious route. The
doctor had to telephone it to the police headquarters and the
latter then sent it on to the prison. It was not considered
desirable to have any direct contacts between the doctors
and the gaol staff. For two weeks these bulletins came to
me, sometimes rather irregularly, and then they were stopped
although there was a progressive deterioration in Kamala’s
condition.

Bad news and the waiting for news made the days intolerably
long and the nights were sometimes worse. Time seemed almost
to stand still or to move with desperate slowness, and every

1 R* S. Pandit’s translation. (“River of Kings.” Taranga. viii
verse, 1913.)

566

BACK TO PRISON

567

hour was a burden and a horror. I had never before had
this feeling in this acute degree. I thought then that I
was likely to be released within two months or so, after the
Bombay Congress Session, but those two months seemed an
eternity.

Exactly a month after my re-arrest a police officer took me
from prison on a brief visit to my wife. I was told that I would
be allowed to visit her in this way twice a week, and even the
time for it was fixed. I waited on the fourth day — no one came
for me; and on the fifth, sixth, seventh. I became weary of wait-
ing. News reached me that her condition was becoming critical
again. What a joke it was, I thought, to tell me that I would
be taken to see her twice a week.

At last the month of September was over. They were the
longest and most damnable thirty days that I had ever
experienced.

Suggestions were made to me through various intermediaries
that if I could give an assurance, even an informal assurance,
to keep away from politics for the rest of my term I would
be released to attend on Kamala. Politics were far enough from
my thoughts just then, and the politics I had seen during my
eleven days outside had disgusted me, but to give an assurance!
And to be disloyal to my pledges, to the cause, to my col-
leagues, to myself! It was an impossible condition, whatever
happened. To do so meant inflicting a mortal injury on the
roots of my being, on almost everything I held sacred. I was
told that Kamala ’s condition was becoming worse and worse
and my presence by her side might make all the difference
between life and death. Was my personal conceit and pride
greater than my desire to give her this chance? It might have
been a terrible predicament for me, but fortunately that
dilemma did not face me in that way at least. I knew that
Kamala herself would strongly disapprove of my giving any
undertaking, and if I did anything of the kind it would shock
her and harm her.

Early in October I was taken to see her again. She was lying
almost in a daze with a high temperature. She longed to have
me by her, but as I was leaving her, to go back to prison, she
smiled at me bravely and beckoned to me to bend down. When
I did so, she whispered: “What is this about your giving an
assurance to Government? Do not give it! ”

During the eleven days I was out of prison it had been de-
cided to send Kamala, as soon as she was a little better, to a
more suitable place for treatment. Ever since then we had

568 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

waited for her to get better, but instead she had gone down*
hill, and now, six weeks later, the change for the worse was
very marked. It was futile to continue waiting and watching
this process of deterioration, and it was decided to send her to
Bhowali in the hills even in her present condition.

The day before she was to leave for Bhowali I was taken from
prison to bid her good-bye. When will I see her again? I
wondered. And will I see her at all? But she looked bright
and cheerful that day, and I felt happier than I had done
for long.

Nearly three weeks later I was transferred from Naini Prison
to Almora District Gaol so as to be nearer to Kamala. Bhowali
was on the way, and my police escort and I spent a few hours
there. I was greatly pleased to note the improvement in Kamala,
and I left her, to continue my journey to Almora, with a light
heart. Indeed, even before I had reached her, the mountains mid
filled me with joy.

I was glad to be back in these mountains, and as our car sped
along the winding road the cold morning air and the unfolding
panorama brought a sense of exhilaration. Higher and higher
we went : the gorges deepened : the peaks lost themselves in the
clouds: the vegetation changed till the firs and pines covered
the hill-sides. A turn of the road would bring to our eyes sud-
denly a new expanse of hills and valleys with a little river
gurgling in the depths below. I could not have my fill of the
sight and I looked on hungrily, storing my memory with it, so
that I might revive it in my mind when actual sight was
denied.

Clusters of little mountain huts clung to the hill-sides, and
round about them were tiny fields made by prodigious labour
on every possible bit of slope. They looked like terraces
from a distance, huge steps which sometimes went from the
valley below right up almost to the mountain top. What
enormous labour had gone to make nature yield a little food
to the sparse population ! How they toiled unceasingly only to
get barely enough for their needs! Those ploughed terraces
gave a domesticated look to the hillsides and they contrasted
strangely with the bleaker or the more wooded slopes.

It was very pleasant in the daytime and, as the sun rose
higher, the growing warmth brought life to the mountains and
they seemed to lose their remoteness and become friendly and
companionable. But how they change their aspect with the pass-
ing of day! How cold and grim they become when “ Night with
giant strides stalks o’er the world ” and life hides and protects

BACK TO PRISON

5*9

itself and leaves wild nature to its own. In the semi-darkness
of the moonlight or starlight the mountains loom up mys-
terious, threatening, overwhelming, and yet almost insub-
stantial, and through the valleys can be heard the moaning
of the wind. The poor traveller shivers as he goes his lonely
way and senses hostility everywhere. Even the voice of the
wind seems to mock him and challenge him. And at other
times there is no breath of wind or other sound, and there is
an absolute silence that is oppressive in its intensity. Only the
telegraph wires perhaps hum faintly, and the stars seem
brighter and nearer than ever. The mountains look down
grimly, and one seems to be face to face with a mystery that
terrifies. With Pascal one thinks: "La silence 6ternel de ces
espaces infini m’effraie In the plains the nights are never
quite so soundless; life is still audible there, and the murmuring
and humming of various animals and insects break the stillness
of the night.

But the night with its chill and inhospitable message was yet
distant as we motored along to Almora. As we neared the end
of our journey, a turn in the road and a sudden lifting of the
clouds brought a new sight which I saw with a gasp of sur-
prised delight. The snowy peaks of the Himalayas stood glisten-
ing in the far distance, high above the wooded mountains that
intervened. Calm and inscrutable they seemed, with all the
wisdom of past ages, mighty sentinels over the vast Indian
plain. The very sight of them cooled the fever in the brain,
and the petty conflicts and intrigues, the lusts and falsehoods
of the plains and the cities seemed trivial and far away before
their eternal ways.

The little gaol of Almora was perched up on a ridge. I was
given a lordly barrack to live in. This consisted of one huge
hall, fifty-one feet by seventeen, with a katcha, very uneven floor,
and a worm-eaten roof which was continually coming down in
little bits. There were fifteen windows and a door, or rather
there were so many barred openings in the walls, for there were
no doors or windows. There was thus no lack of ’fresh air. As
it grew colder some of the window-openings were covered with
coir matting. In this vast expanse (which was bigger than any
yard at Denra Dun) I lived in solitary grandeur. But I was
not quite alone, for at least two score sparrows had made
their home in the broken-down roof. Sometimes a wandering
cloud would visit me, its many arms creeping in through
the numerous openings and filling the place with a damp
mist.

570 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Here I was locked up every evening at about five, after I had
taken my last meal, a kind of high tea, at four-thirty; and at
seven in the morning my barred door would be unlocked. In
the daytime I would sit either in my barrack or outside in an
adjoining yard, warming myself in the sun. I could just see
over the enclosing walls the top of a mountain a mile or so
away, and above me I had a vast expanse of blue sky dotted
with clouds. Wonderful shapes these clouds assumed, and I
never grew tired of watching them. I fancied I saw them take
the shape of all manner of animals, and sometimes they would
join together and look like a mighty ocean. Or they would be
like a beach, and the rustling of the breeze through the deodars
would sound like the coming in of the tide on a distant sea-
front. Sometimes a cloud would advance boldly on us, seem-
ingly solid and compact, and then dissolve in mist as it came
near and finally enveloped us.

I preferred the wide expanse of my barrack to a narrow cell,
though it was lonelier than a smaller place would have been.
Even when it rained outside I could walk about in it. But as
it grew colder its cheerlessness became more marked, and my
love for fresh air and the open abated when the temperature
hovered about the freezing-point. The new year brought a
good fall of snow to my delight, and even the drab surround-
ings of prison became beautiful. Especially beautiful and fairy-
like were the deodar trees just outside the gaol walls with their
garment of snow.

I was worried by the ups and downs of Kamala’s condition,
and a piece of bad news would upset me for a while, but the
hill air calmed me and soothed me and I reverted to my habit
of sleeping soundly. As I was on the verge of sleep I often
thought what a wonderful and mysterious thing was sleep.
Wh^ should one wake up from it? Suppose I did not wake

Yet the desire to be out gaol was strong in me, more than I
had ever felt before. The Bombay Congress was over, and
November came and went by and the excitement of the As-
sembly elections also passed away. I half expected that I might
be released soon.

But then came the surprising news of the arrest and con-
viction of Khan Abdul Ghanar Khan and the amazing
orders passed on Subhas Bose during his brief visit to India.
These orders in themselves were devoid of all humanity
and consideration; they were applied to one who was held
in affection and esteem by vast numbers of his country-

BACK TO PRISON

57 *

men, and who had hastened home, in spite of his own
illness, to the death-bed of his father— to arrive too late. If
that was the outlook of the Government there could be no
chance of my premature release. Official announcements later
made this perfectly clear.

After I had been a month in Almora gaol I was taken to
Bhowali to see Kamala. Since then I have visited her approxi-
mately every third week. Sir Samuel Hoare, the Secretary of
State for India, has repeatedly stated that I am allowed to visit
my wife once or twice a week. He would have been more cor-
rect if he had said once or twice a month. During the last
three and a half months that I have been at Almora I have
paid five visits to her. I do not mention this as a grievance,
because I think that in this matter the Government have been
very considerate to me and have given me quite unusual
facilities to visit Kamala. I am grateful to them for this. The
brief visits I have paid her have been very precious to me and
perhaps to her also. The doctors suspended their regime for
the day of my visit to some extent, and I was permitted to
have fairly long talks with her. We came ever nearer to each
other, and to leave her was a wrench. We met only to be
parted. And sometimes I thought with anguish that a day
might come when the parting was for good.

My mother had gone to Bombay for treatment, for she had
not recovered from her ailment. She seemed to be progressing.
One morning in mid-January a telegram brought a wholly un-
expected shock. She had had a stroke of paralysis. There was
a possibility of my being transferred to a Bombay prison to
enable me to see her, but as there was a little improvement in
her condition I was not sent.

January has given place to February, and there is the whisper
of spring in the air. The bulbul and other birds are again to
be seen and heard, and tiny shoots are mysteriously bursting
out of the ground and gazing at this strange world. Rhododen-
drons make blood-red patches on the hill-sides, and peace and
plum blossoms are peeping out. The days pass and I count
them as they go, thinking of my next visit to Bhowali. I won-
der what truth there is in the saying that life’s rich gifts follow
frustration and cruelty and separation. Perhaps the gifts would
not be appreciated otherwise. Perhaps suffering is necessary for
clear thought, but excess of it may cloud the brain. Gaol
encourages introspection, and my long years in prison have
forced me to look more and more within myself. I was not by
nature an introvert, but prison life, like strong coffee or

573 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

strychnine, leads to introversion. Sometimes, to amuse myself,
I draw an outline of Professor McDougall’s cube for the
measurement of introversion and extroversion, and I gaze at
it to find out how frequent are the changes from one interpreta-
tion to another. They seem to be rapid.

LXVII

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS

Dawn reddens in the wake of night, but the days of our life
return not.

The eye contains a far horizon, but the wound of spring lies
deep in the heart.

Li Thi Po.

I followed from the newspapers supplied to me the proceed-
ings of the Bombay session of the Congress. I was naturally
interested in its politics and personalities. Twenty years’ in-
timate association had tied me up so closely with it that my
individuality had almost become merged in it, and far stronger
than the claims of office and responsibility were the invisible
bonds that tied me to that great organisation and to thousands
of my old comrades. And yet I felt it difficult to get excited
over its proceedings; in spite of some important decisions the
whole session seemed to me a dull affair. The subjects that in-
terested me were hardly discussed. What would I have done if
I had been there, I wondered. I did not know for certain; I
could not say how I would have reacted to the new conditions
and my surroundings. And I saw no reason why I should force
my mind to come to a difficult decision in prison when such a
decision was wholly unnecessary then. The time would come
when I would have to face the problems of the day and decide
on my course of action. It was needless folly to anticipate that
decision, even in the recesses of my mind, for circumstances
would change before that choice was forced on me.

The two outstanding features of the Congress, as far as I
could make out from my distant and secluded abode on the
mountains, were: the dominant personality of Gandhiji and
the exceedingly poor show that the communal opposition under
Pandit Madan Mohan Malaviya and Mr. Aney put up. To all
who have knowledge of the inner workings of the Indian mass-
mind, as well as the middle-class mind, it was no surprise to
find that Gandhiji continues to be far and away the master
figure in India. Government officials and some secluded
politicians often imagine, making the wish the father to the
thought, that he is played out in the political field or, at least,
that his influence has greatly declined. And then when he

51 $

574 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

emerges again with all his old energy and influence they are
taken aback and search for fresh reasons for this apparent
change. He dominates the Congress and the country not so
much because of any opinions he holds, and which are gener-
ally accepted, but because of his unique personality. Person-
ality counts for much everywhere; in India it plays an even
more dominant role than elsewhere.

His retirement from the Congress was a striking feature of
the session and outwardly it marked the end of a great chapter
in Congress and Indian history. But, essentially, its significance
was not great for he cannot rid himself, even if he wanted to,
of his dominating position. He did not owe that position to
any office or other tangible tie. The Congress to-day reflects
almost as much his view-point as it has ever done before, and
even if it should wander away from his path, Gandhiji, even
unconsciously, would continue to influence it and the country
to a very great extent. He cannot divest himself of that
burden and responsibility. In considering the objective condi-
tions prevailing in India his personality forces itself on one’s
attention and cannot be ignored.

He has, for the present, retired from the Congress presumably
to avoid embarrassing the Congress. Perhaps he contemplates
some kind of individual direct action which will necessarily
lead to a conflict with Government. He does not want to make
this a Congress issue.

I was glad that the Congress had adopted the idea of a Con-
stituent Assembly for settling the constitution of the country.
It seemed to me that there was no other way of solving the
problem, and I am sure that sometime or other some such
Assembly will have to meet. Manifestly it cannot do so without
the consent of the British Government, unless there has been
a successful revolution. It is equally manifest that this consent
is not likely to be forthcoming under present circumstances. A
real Assembly can therefore not meet till enough strength has
been evolved in the country to force the pace. This inevitably
means that even the political problem will remain unsolved till
then. Some of the Congress leaders, while accepting the idea
of the Constituent Assembly, have tried to tone it down and
made it not very unlike a large All-Parties Conference after the
old model. This would be an utterly futile proceeding and the
same old people, self-chosen mostly, would meet and disagree.
The whole idea behind the Constituent Assembly is that
it should be elected on a very wide mass basis, drawing
its strength and inspiration from the masses. Such a gather-

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 575

ing will immediately face real problems, and will not remain
in the communal and other ruts in which we have so often
stuck.

It was interesting to watch the reactions of Simla and London
to this idea. It was made known semi-officially that Govern-
ment would have no objection; they gave it a patronising ap-
proval, evidently looking upon it as an old type of All-Parties
Conference, foredoomed to failure, vhich would strengthen
their hands. Later they seem to have realised the dangers
and possibilities of the idea, and they began opposing it vigor-
ously.

Soon after the Bombay Congress came the Assembly elections.
With all my lack of enthusiasm for the Congress parliamentary
programme, I was greatly interested and I wished the Congress
candidates success, or to put it more correctly, I hoped for the
defeat of their opponents. Among these opponents was a curi-
ous assortment of careerists, communalists, renegades, and
people who had staunchly supported the Government in its
policy of repression. There was little doubt that most of these
people would be swept away, but unfortunately the Communal
Award obscured the issue and many of them took shelter under
the widespread wings of the communal organisations. Despite
this the Congress met with remarkable success, and I was
pleased that a good number of undesirables had been kept
out.

The attitude of the so-called Congress Nationalist Party
struck me as particularly deplorable. One could understand
their vehement opposition to the Communal Award but, in
order to strengthen their position, they allied themselves with
the extreme communal organisations, even the Sanatanists, than
whom there is no more reactionary group in India, both politi-
cally and socially, as well as numerous political reactionaries of
the most notorious kind. Except in Bengal, where for special
reasons a strong Congress group supported them, many of
them were largely anti-Congress in every way. Indeed they
were the most prominent opponents of the Congress. In spite
of this varied assortment of forces opposed to it, which included
landlords, liberals and, of course, officials, the Congress candi-
dates succeeded to a remarkable extent.

The Congress attitude to the Communal Award was extraor-
dinary, and yet under the circumstances it could hardly have
been very different. It was the inevitable outcome of their past
neutral and rather feeble policy. A strong line adopted at an
earlier stage and followed regardless of immediate consequences

576 jawahablal nehru

would have been more dignified and correct. But as the Con-
gress had been unwilling to take that up there was no other
course open to it except tne one it took. The Communal Award
was a patent absurdity, and it was impossible of acceptance
because, so long as it existed, any kind of freedom was unat-
tainable. This was not because it gave too much to the Mus-
lims. It was perhaps possible to give them, in a different way,
almost all they wanted. As it was, the British Government
divided up India into any number of mutually exclusive com-
partments, each balancing and neutralising the other, so that
the foreign British element could remain supreme. It made
dependence on the British Government inevitable.

In Bengal especially, where heavy weightage had been given
to the small European element, tne position was exceedingly
unfair to the Hindus. Such an award or decision, or whatever
it might be called (objection has been taken to its being called
an award), was bound to be bitterly resented, and even though
it might be imposed, or for political reasons tolerated tem-
porarily, it is likely to be a continuing source of friction. Per-
sonally I think that its very badness is a thing in its favour, for
as such it can never become the permanent basis for anything.

The Nationalist Party, and even more so the Hindu Maha-
sabha and other communal organisations, naturally resented
this infliction, but their criticism was really based, as that of
the supporters, on an acceptance of the British Government's
ideology. This led them, and is leading them further, to the
adoption of a strange policy, which must be very pleasing to
the Government. Obsessed by the Award, they are toning down
their opposition to other vital matters, in the hope of bribing
or cajoling the Government into varying the Award in their
favour. The Hindu Mahasabha has gone farthest in this direc-
tion. It does not seem to strike them that this is not only a
humiliating position to take up, but is calculated to make any
alteration of the Award most difficult, for it merely irritates
the Muslims and drives them farther away. It is impossible for
the British Government to win over the nationalist elements;
the distance is too great and the conflict of interests too
marked. It is also impossible for them, on the narrower issue
of communal interests, to please both the Hindu and the
Muslim communalists. They had to choose and, from their
points of view, they chose rightly in favouring Muslim com-
munalism. Are they to upset this well-settled and profitable
policy and offend the Muslims for the sake of winning over
a handful of Hindu communalists?

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 577

The very fact that the Hindus, as a group, are more advanced
politically and more clamant for national freedom is bound to
go against them. For petty communal concessions (and they
cannot be other than petty) will not make much difference to
their political hostility; such concessions will however make a
temporary difference to the Muslim attitude.

The Assembly elections threw a revealing light on the people
at the back of the Hindu Mahasabha and the Muslim Con-
ference — the two most reactionary communal bodies. Their
candidates and supporters were drawn from the big landlords
or the rich banker class. The Mahasabha also showed its soli-
citude to the banker class by its vehement opposition to the
recent Relief from Indebtedness Bills. These small sections at
the top of the Hindu social strata constitute the Hindu Maha-
sabha, and a fraction of them, together with some professional
people, form the Liberals. They do not carry great weight
among the Hindus because the lower middle class is politically
awake. The industrial leaders also stand apart from them
because there is some clash between the demands of rising
industry and the semi-feudal elements. Industrialists, not daring
to indulge in direct action or other risky methods, try to keep
on good terms with both nationalism and the Government.
They do not pay much attention to the liberal or communal
groups. Industrial advance and profits are their governing
motives.

Among the Muslims this lower middle-class awakening is
still to come, and industrially also they are backward. *01118
we find the most hopelessly reactionary and feudal and
ex-oflicial elements not only controlling their communal
organisations, but exercising considerable influence over the
community. The Muslim Conference is quite a galaxy of
knights, ex-ministers and big landlords. And yet I think that
the Muslim rank and file has more potentiality in it, perhaps
because of a certain freedom in social relations, than the Hindu
masses, and is likely to go ahead faster in a socialist direction,
once it gets moving. Just at present the Musliih intelligentsia
seems to be paralysed, intellectually as well as physically, and
has no push in it. It dare not challenge its old guard.

Even the leadership of the Congress, politically the most
advanced big group, is far more cautious than the condition of
the masses might necessitate. They ask the masses for support,
but seldom ask them for their opinion or set about enquiring
what ails them. Prior to the Assembly elections they made
every effort to tone down their programme in an attempt to win

578 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

over various moderate non-Congress elements. Even their atti-
tude to such measures as the Temple Entry Bill was varied, and
assurances were given to soothe the more orthodox in Madras.
A straightforward, aggressive election programme would have
created more enthusiasm and helped greatly in educating the
masses. Now that the Congress has committed itself to a par-
liamentary programme there will be still more accommodation
of politically and socially reactionary interests, in the hope of
getting a few odd votes in a division, and a greater widening of
the breach between the Congress leadership and the masses.
Eloquent speeches will be delivered, and the best parliamentary
etiquette followed, and from time to time the Government will
be defeated— defeats which the Government will calmly ignore
as it has previously done.

During the past few years, when Congress was boycotting the
Legislatures, we were often told by official spokesmen that the
Assembly and the Provincial Councils were truly representative
of the people and mirrored public opinion. It is interesting to
find that now, when more advanced elements dominate the
Assembly, the official view-point has changed. Whenever a
reference is made to the Congress success at the elections, we
are told that the electorate is a very small one, only three
millions out of nearly three hundred or thereabouts. The dis-
franchised millions apparently, according to official opinion,
stand solidly behind the British Government. The remedy is
obvious. Give adult suffrage and then we shall know at least
what these people think.

Soon after the Assembly elections the Report of the Joint
Parliamentary Committee on Indian Constitutional Reform was
issued. Among the varied and widespread criticisims to which
it was subjected, stress was often laid on the fact that it showed
* distrust ’ and ‘ suspicion ’ of the Indian people. This seemed
to me a very strange way of looking at our national and social
problems. Were thefe no vital conflicts of interests between
British imperial policy and our national interests? The
question was which was to prevail. Did we want freedom
merely to continue that imperial policy? Apparently that was
the British Governments notion, for we were informed that
the ‘ safeguards ' would not be used so long as we behaved and
demonstrated our fitness for self-rule by doing just what British
policy required. If British policy was to be continued in India,
why all this shouting about getting the reins in our own hands?

The Ottawa agreements, it is well known, have not been of
great benefit to England economically except in regard to

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 579

Indian trade . 1 British trade with India has certainly benefited*
at the cost* according to Indian political and commercial
opinion* of India's wider interests. The position is reversed in
regard to the Dominions* especially Canada and Australia . 3
They struck a hard bargain with Britain and got most of the
advantages at Britain’s expense. In spite of this fact* continuous
attempts are being made by them to get away from Ottawa
and its entanglements in order to develop their own industries
as well as their trade with other countries . 3 In Canada a leading
political party, the Liberals, who are likely to be in power before
long, are definitely committed to ending the Ottawa pact . 4 In

1 “Referring to Indian trade, Sir William Currie said that the
Ottawa agreements had been a definite advantage to Britain/ 9 Sir
William was presiding over the meeting of the P. and O. Shipping
Company in London on Dec. 5, 1934.

3 The London Economist (June 1934) says that the Ottawa Con-
ference “could only have been justified if it had increased the
value of inter-imperial trade without diminishing the value of the
Empire’s trade with the rest of the world. In fact, it has merely
increased very slightly the proportion that inter-imperial trade
bears to the dwindling total of the Empire’s trade. And this diver-
sion has been much more in the interests of the Dominions than
of Great Britain. Our imports from the Empire increased from
£247*000, 000 in 1931 to £249,000,000 in 1933, but our exports de-
creased from £170,600,000 to £163,500,000. And the fact remains
that between 1929 and 1933 our exports to the Empire declined by

50.9 per cent., while our imports from the Empire declined only

32.9 per cent. The decline in our exports to foreign countries was
not quite so great, but the decline in our imports from these
countries was much greater.”

1 The Melbourne Age does not like the Ottawa Agreement. In
its view Ottawa is “ acting as a constant irritant and is being in-
creasingly recognised as an egregious blunder.” (Quoted in Man-
chester Guardian Weekly , October 19, 1934.)

4 Even Mr. Bennett, the present Conservative Prime Minister
of Canada, has been a thorn in the side of the British Government
in trade matters. He is talking now in terms of 4 New Deals ’ and
records a surprising conversion. Owing to the dangerous influence
of Mr. Litvinov, Sir Stafford Cripps and Mr. John Strachey, he has
turned collectivist. This should be a sign and a warning to all
Conservatives, Liberals, I.C.S. men, etc., to avoid thinking or asso-
ciating with those who do so, or else they might themselves become
converts to dangerous doctrines. (Since writing the above, the
Liberal Party in Canada, under the leadership of Mr. King, has
swept the polls and come into power.)

580 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Australia strained interpretations of Ottawa have led to an
increase of tariffs on certain classes of piece goods and yams,
and this has been bitterly resented by the Lancashire cotton
industry and denounced by them as a breach of the Ottawa
Agreement. As a protest and a reprisal, a movement for the
boycott of Australian goods was inaugurated in Lancashire.
This threat had little effect on Australia, where an aggressive
attitude was taken up . 1

The economic conflicts are obviously not due to any ill-will
that the people of Canada and Australia may have for Britain,
though in Ireland’s case that ill-will is apparent. Conflicts
occur because interests clash, and wherever such clashes might
take place, the object of * safeguards ’ in India is to see that
Britisn interests prevail. The recent Indo-British Trade Agree-
ment, arrived at secretly over the heads and despite the protests
of Indian business and industry, although British industrialists
were kept informed, rejected by the Legislative Assembly and
yet persisted in by the Government, is a gentle indication of
what 4 safeguards ’ would lead to. Such 4 safeguards ’ seem to be
urgently needed in Canada, Australia and South Africa to pre-
vent the people of those Dominions from going astray not only
in trade matters but in matters of greater concern to the safety
and cohesion of the Empire . 2 *

Empire, it has been said, is Debt, and the 4 safeguards ’ have
been devised to enable the imperial moneylender to keep his
stranglehold on his unfortunate debtor, and to keep all his
special interests and powers intact. A curious doctrine, often

1 The Melbourne Age declared that if the proposed Lancashire
boycott is not dropped, Australia must hit harder at whatever
trade with Lancashire still remains. Lancashire is to be answered
“ with unwavering reiteration.” (Quoted in Manchester Guardian
Weekly , November 9, 1934.)

2 Mr. O. Pirow, Minister for Defence of the Union of South Africa,
stated that the Union would not take part in any general scheme of
Imperial Defence, nor would it participate in an overseas war even

though Britain might be at war. “If the Government attempted
rashly to commit South Africa to participate in another overseas
war there would be large-scale disturbances, possibly civil war.
Hence Government would not participate in any general scheme
of Imperial Defence.” (Reuter message dated Cape Town, February
5* *9350 General Hertzog, the Prime Minister, nas confirmed this
declaration and stated that it represents the Union Government’s

policy.

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 581

repeated officially, is that Gandhiji and the Congress have
agreed to the idea of such safeguards because ‘ safeguards in
the interests of India * were accepted in the Delhi Pact of 1931.

Ottawa and the safeguards dealing with trade and commerce
are after all relatively minor matters. 1 * * What is far more im-
portant is the series of provisions which aim at perpetuating
every vital political and economic hold on the Indian people
which has in the past and present helped in the exploitation of
the country. So long as these provisions and * safeguards' re-
main, real progress in any direction is impossible, and there is
no place left for constitutional attempts at change. Every such
attempt will come up against the blank wall of the 'safe-
guards and make it more and more clear that the only possible
course is not constitutional. From the point of view of political
changes this proposed constitution, with its monstrous Federa-
tion, is an absurdity; it is far worse from the social and eco-
nomic view-point. The way to socialism is deliberately barred.
A great deal of responsibility has apparently been transferred
(but even that largely to 4 safe ' classes) but not the power or
means to do anything worth while. Britain retains the power
without the responsibility. There is not even the proverbial
fig-leaf to cover the nakedness of autocracy.. Everybody knows
that the essential need in these times is extreme flexibility and
adaptation in constitutions to meet a rapidly changing situation.
Quick decisions are necessary, and the power to enforce them.
Even so it is doubtful if parliamentary democracy, as it func-
tions in a few of the Western countries to-day, is capable of
bringing about the changes essential for the proper functioning
of the modern world. But that question does not arise here,
for movement is deliberately checked by chains and fetters, and
a barred and bolted door confronts us. We are provided with
a car, all brakes and no engines. It is a constitution designed
by people whose ever-present background is Martial Law. To
a man of force there is no real alternative to Martial Law
except collapse.

The measure of liberty that this proposed gift of Britain
offers to India can be taken from the fact that even the most
moderate and politically backward groups in India have

1 The London Economist (October 1934) has pointed out: “But
for the future it appears that among the benefits of British rule the

doubtful privilege of buying expensively from Lancashire is to be

forced upon the 1 native ' in many corners of the globe." Ceylon

has been the most flagrant recent example of this.

582 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

condemned it as reactionary. The habitual and persistent
supporters of Government have had to combine criticisms
of it with their usual genuflections. Others have been more
vehement.

In view of these proposals the Liberals found it diflicult to
retain in full measure their abiding faith in the inscrutable
wisdom of Providence in placing India under British dominion.
They offered strong criticism, but disdainful of reality and
enamoured of phrases and fine ‘ gestures ’, they laid the greatest
stress on the absence of the words “Dominion Status^’ from
the Report and the Bill. There was a great outcry about this,
and now that Sir Samuel Hoare has made some kind of a state-
ment on the subject, honour will largely be satisfied. The
Dominion Status may be an insubstantial shadow haunting an
unknown future— a Never-Never land which we may never
reach, but we can dream about it at least and grow eloquent
over its many beauties. Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru, troubled per-
haps by douots about the British Parliament and the British
people, has sought refuge in the Crown. Eminent lawyer that
he is, he has laid down a novel constitutional doctrine : “ What-
ever the British Parliament and people may or may not do for
India,” he said, “over and above them stood the Crown that
looks after the interests of Indian subjects and India’s peace
and prosperity .” 1 It is a comforting doctrine which saves us
from troubling ourselves about constitutions, laws, and political
and social changes.

But it would be unfair to suggest that the Liberals have
lessened their opposition to the scheme. Most of them have
made it perfectly clear that they prefer present conditions, bad
as they are, to this unwanted gift that is being thrust on India.
Beyond stressing that, their very principles forbid them from
doing anything, and it may be presumed that they will go on
laying stress. For their motto they might well have that
modem adaptation of an ancient saying : “ If at first you don’t
succeed, cry again! ”

A certain hopeful reliance is placed by Liberal leaders, and
probably by many others including some Congressmen, on the
victory of the Labour Party in Britain and the formation of
a Labour Government there. There is absolutely no reason why
India should not endeavour to go ahead with the co-operation
of advanced groups in Britain, or should not try to profit by
the advent of a Labour Government. But to rely helplessly on

1 Speaking at a public meeting at Lucknow on January 29, 1935.

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 583

a change in fortune’s wheel in England is hardly dignified or
in consonance with national honour. Dignity apart, it is not
good common sense. Why should we expect much from the
British Labour Party? We have had two Labour Governments
already, and we are not likely to forget their gifts to India. Mr.
Ramsay MacDonald may have left the Labour ranks, but his
old colleagues do not seem to have changed much. At the
Southport Labour Party Conference held in October 1934, a
resolution was submitted by Mr. V. K. Krishna Menon “ex-
pressing the conviction that it is imperative that the principle
of self-determination for the establishment of full self-govern-
ment for India should be implemented forthwith.” Mr. Arthur
Henderson urged the withdrawal of the resolution and, very
frankly, refused to give an undertaking on behalf of the
Executive to carry out its policy of self-determination for India.
He said : “ We have laid down very clearly that we are going
to consult if possible all sections of the Indian people. 1 hat
ought to satisfy anybody.” The satisfaction will perhaps be
tempered by the fact that exactly this was the declared policy
of the last Labour Government and the National Government,
resulting in the Round Table Conference, the White Paper, the
Joint Committee Report, and the India Act.

It is perfectly clear that in matters of imperial policy there
is little to choose between Tory or Labour in England. It is
true that the Labour rank and file is far more advanced, but it
has little influence on its very conservative leadership. It may
be that the Labour Left wing gather strength, for conditions
change rapidly nowadays, but do national or social movements
curl themselves up and go to sleep, waiting for problematical
changes elsewhere?

There is a curious aspect to this reliance of our Liberals on
the British Labour Party. If, by any chance, this Party went
Left and gave effect in England to its socialistic programme,
what would be the reactions in India and on the Liberals and
other Moderate groups here? Most of them are socially Con-
servatives of the deepest dye. They will dislike Labour’s social
and economic changes, and fear their introduction in India.
It may even happen that their love of the British connection
may undergo a sea-change, when this connection becomes a
symbol of social upsets. It may also happen then that persons
like me, who want national independence and severance of that
connection, may change their minds and prefer close association
with a socialist Britain. None of us surely has any objection
to co-operating with the British people; it is their imperialism

584 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

that wc object to, and once they have shed this, the way to
co-operation will be open. What of the Moderates then? Prob-
ably they will accept the new order as another indication of
the inscrutable wisdom of Providence.

One of the notable consequences of the Round Table Con-
ference and the proposal, to nave a Federation, is to push the
Indian Princes very much to the forefront. The solicitude of
the Tory die-hards for them and their * independence ' has put
new life into them. Never before have they had so much im-
portance thrust on them? Previously they dared not say no to
a hint from the British Resident, and the Government of
India’s attitude to the numerous highnesses was openly. dis-
dainful. There was continual interference in their internal
affairs, and often this was justified. Even to-day a large number
of the States are directly or indirectly being governed by British
officers ‘ lent * to the States. But Mr. Churchill's and Lord
RotHermere’s campaign seems to have unnerved the Govern-
ment of India a little, and it has grown cautious about inter-
fering with their decisions. The Princes also now talk in a
much more superior way.

I have tried to follow these superficial developments in the
Indian political scene, but I cannot help feeling that they are
unreal, and the background in India oppresses me. The back-
ground is one of continual repression of every kind of free-
dom, of enormous suffering and frustration, of distortion of
goodwill, and encouragement of many evil tendencies. Large
numbers lie in prison and spend their young lives, year after
year, eating their hearts out . 1 Their families and friends and
connections and thousands of others grow bitter, and a
nauseating sense of humiliation and powerlessness before brute
strength takes possession of them. Numerous organisations are
outlawed even in normal times, and ‘ Emergency Powers ' and
‘Tranquillity Acts’ make for themselves almost a permanent

1 Sir Harry Haig, Home Member, stated in the Legislative As-
sembly on July 23, 1934, that the total number of detenus in
gaols and special camps were: in Bengal, 1500 to 1600; in Deoli
camp, 500. Total, 2000 to 2100. This is the figure for detenus; that
is, untried and ;anconvicted prisoners. It does not include political
convicts. In the case of convicts sentences are usually very heavy.
In a recent Calcutta case the Associated Press (Dec. 17, 1934) states
that the High Co*irt gave a sentence of nine years' rigorous im-
prisonment, the offence being the unlicensed possession of arms
and ammunition. The accused had been arrested with a revolver
and six cartridges.

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS

5*5

home in the Government's armoury. Exceptions in the matter
of restrictions of liberties rapidly becomes the general rule. Large
numbers of books and periodicals are proscribed or prevented
entry by a ‘ Sea Customs Act and the possession*of * danger-
ous ' literature may lead to a long term of imprisonment. A
frank expression of opinion on the political or economic prob-
lems of the day, or a favourable report of social and cultural
conditions in Russia meets with the strong disapproval of the
censor. The Modem Review was warned by the Bengal Govern-
ment because it published an article by Dr. Rabindra Nath
Tagore on Russia, an article written after a personal visit to that
country. We are informed by the Under-Secretary for India in
Parliament that “ the article gave a distorted view of the
achievements of British rule in India," and hence action was
taken against it . 1 2 The judge of these achievements is the
censor, and we may not have a contrary opinion or give ex-
pression to it. Objection was also taken by Government to the
publication of a brief message from Rabindra Nath Tagore to
the Dublin Society of Friends. If a sage like Tagore, interested
in cultural matters and deliberately keeping aloof from politics,
revered in India and world famous, is suppressed in this way,
what of humble folk? Worse even than the actual instances of
suppression is the atmosphere of fear they create. It is not
possible to have honest journalism under these circumstances,
or a proper consideration or teaching of history, economics,
politics or current affairs. This is a strange background for the
introduction of reforms and responsible government and the

Every intelligent person knows that the world is in a state of
intellectual turmoil to-day, and that there is a vague or acutely-

1 November 12, 1934.

2 On September 4, 1935, an official statement was made in
the Legislative Assembly regarding the working of the Press laws
in India. It was stated that from 1930 onwards 514 newspapers had
been affected by Government demands for securities and by con-
fiscations. Of these, 348 newspapers stopped publication because
they could not give further securities; 166 newspapers gave securi-
ties amounting to Rs. 252,852.

Recently (in the latter half of 1935) a number of laws suppressing
civil liberties have again been enacted for a further long period.
The principal one — The Criminal Law Amendment Act — applies
to the whole of India. It was thrown, out by the Legislative As-
sembly and later certified by the Governor-General. Many pro-
vinces have also passed such laws.

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

586

felt, but in any case a tremendous, dissatisfaction with existing
conditions. Far-reaching changes are taking place before our
eyes, and the future, whatever shape it might take, is not a
remote, far-off thing which arouses a purely academic interest
in the detached minds of philosophers, sociologists and econo-
mists. It is a matter which affects every human being for better
or for worse, and surely it is every citizen’s duty to try to under-
stand the various forces at play and decide on his own course
of action. A world is coming to an end, and a new world is
taking shape. To find an answer to a problem it is necessary
to know what it is. Indeed it is as important to know the
problem as to seek a solution for it.

Unhappily there is an astonishing ignorance or indifference
to world happenings among our politicians. Probably this
ignorance extends to the great majority of the official element
in India, for the Civil Service lives happily and complacently in
a narrow world of its own. Only the topmost of our officials
have to consider these problems. The British Government of
course has to keep world events in view and to develop its policy
accordingly. It is common knowledge that British foreign
policy has been considerably influenced by the possession and
protection of India. How many Indian politicians consider that
Japanese imperialism, or the growing strength of the Soviet
Union, or the Anglo-Russo-Japanese intrigues in Sinkiang, or
the events in Central Asia or Afghanistan or Persia, have an
intimate bearing on Indian politics? The Central Asian situa-
tion obviously affects the position of Kashmir and makes it a
pivot of British policy and defence.

Even more important are the economic changes that are
rapidly taking place the world over. We must realise that the
nineteenth-century system has passed away, and has no appli-
cation to present-day needs. The lawyer’s view, so prevalent in
India, of proceeding from precedent to precedent is of little
use when there are no precedents. We cannot put a bullock-
cart on rails and call it a railway train. It has to give way and
be scrapped as obsolescent material. Even apart from Russia,
there is talk of New Deals and vast changes. President Roose-
velt, with every desire to retain and strengthen the capitalist
system, has with great courage inaugurated enormous schemes
which may change American life. He talks of “ weeding out
the ovarprivilegcd and effectively lifting up the under-privi-
leged*. He may or may not succeed, but the courage of the
man and his desire to pull his country out of the ruts are
undeniable. He is not afraid of changing his policy or of

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS

587

admitting mistakes. In England Mr. Lloyd George has come
out with his 4 New Deal We want many New Deals in India
too.* The old assumption that “whatever is worth knowing is
already known, and whatever is worth doing has already been
done/’ is perilous nonsense.

We have to face many questions, and we must face them
boldly. Has the present social or economic system a right to
exist if it is unable to improve greatly the condition of the
masses? Does any other system give promise of this wide-
spread betterment? How far will a mere political change bring
radical improvement? If vested interests come in the way of
an eminently desirable change, is it wise or moral to attempt
to preserve them at the cost of mass misery and poverty?
Surely the object is not to injure vested interests, but to prevent
them from injuring others. If it was possible to come to terms
with these vested interests, it would be most desirable to do so.
People may disagree with the justice or injustice of this, but
few will doubt the expediency of a settlement. Such a settlement
obviously cannot be the removal of one vested interest by
the creation of another. Whenever possible and desirable,
reasonable compensation might be given, for a conflict is likely
to cost far more. But, unhappily, all history shows that vested
interests do not accept such compromises. Classes that have
ceased to play a vital part in society are singularly lacking
in wisdom. They gamble for all or nothing, and so they fade
away.

There is a great deal of 4 loose talk ’ (as the Congress Working
Committee put it) about confiscation and the like. Confiscation,
persistent and continual, is the basis of the existing system, and
it is to put an end to this that social changes are proposed.
There is the daily confiscation of part of the labour product of
the worker; a peasant’s holding is ultimately confiscated by
raising his rent or revenue to such an extent that he cannot
pay it. Formerly common lands were confiscated by individuals
and made into big estates; peasant proprietors were also wiped
out in this way. Confiscation is the basis and life-breath of the
present system.

To remedy this partly, society tries various expedients which
are themselves of the nature of confiscation— heavy taxes,
death-duties, laws for the relief from indebtedness, inflation, etc.
Recently we have seen national repudiation of debt on an enor-
mous scale, not only by the Soviet Union but by leading
capitalist countries; the most notable instance of this being the
British repudiation of their debt to the United States— a

58S JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

dangerous example to place before India! But all these con-
fiscations and repudiations help only to a minor extent, and do
not get rid of the basic cause. To build anew, that root cause
has to be removed.'

In considering a method for changing the existing order we
have to weigh the costs of it in material as well as spiritual
terms. We cannot afford to be too shortsighted. We have to
see how far it helps ultimately in the development of human
happiness and human progress, material and spiritual. But we
have always to bear in mind the terrible costs of not changing
the existing order, of carrying on as we do to-day with our
enormous burden of frustrated and distorted lives, starvation
and misery, and spiritual and moral degradation. Like an
ever-recurring flood this present economic system is continually
overwhelming and carrying away to destruction vast numbers
of human beings. We cannot check the flood or save these
people by some of us carrying water away in a bucket. Em-
bankments have to be built and canals, and the destructive
power of the waters has to be converted and used for human
betterment.

It is obvious that the vast changes that socialism envisages
cannot be brought about by the sudden passing of a few laws.
But the basic laws and power are necessary to give the direction
of advance and to lay the foundation of the structure. If the
great building-up of a socialised society is to proceed, it cannot
be left to chance nor can it be done in fits and starts with
intervals of destruction of what has been built. The major
obstructions have thus to be removed. The object is not to
deprive, but to provide; to change the present scarcity to future
abundance. But in doing so the path must necessarily be
cleared of impediments and selfish interests which want to hold
society back. And the path we take is not merely a question of
what we like or dislike or even of abstract justice, but what is
economically sound, capable of progress and adaptation to
changing conditions, and likely to do good to the largest num-
ber of human beings.

A clash of interests seems inevitable. There is no middle path.
Each one of us will have to choose our side. Before we can
choose, we must know and understand. The emotional appeal
of socialism is not enough. This must be supplemented by an
intellectual and reasoned appeal based on facts and arguments
and detailed criticism. In the West a great deal of this kind
of literature exists, but in India there is a tremendous lack of
it, and many good books are not allowed entry here. But to

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 589

read books from other countries is not enough. If socialism is
to be built up in India it will have to grow out of Indian con-
ditions, and the closest study of these conditions is essential.
We want experts in the job who study and prepare detailed
plans. Unfortunately our experts are mostly in Government
service or in the semi-official universities, and they dare not go
far in this direction.

An intellectual background is not enough to bring socialism.
Other forces are necessary. But I do feel that without that
background we can never have a grip of the subject or create
a powerful movement. At the present moment the agrarian
problem is far the most important in India, and it is likely to
remain so. But industry is of little less importance, and it
grows. What is our objective : a peasant State or an industrial
one? Of course we are bound to remain predominantly agri-
cultural, but one can and, I think, must push on industry.

Our captains of industry are quite amazingly backward in
their ideas; they are not even up-to-date capitalists. The masses
are so poor that they do not look upon them as potential con-
sumers, and fight bitterly against any proposal to increase wages
or lower hours of work. Recently hours of work have been
reduced from ten to nine in the cotton mills. This has led the
Ahmedabad mill-owners to reduce the wages of labour, even
piece-work labour. Thus the reduction of hours of work has
meant a lower income and a yet lower standard for the poor
worker. Rationalisation, however, proceeds apace, increasing the
pressure on the worker and his fatigue, without any propor-
tionate increase in wages. The whole outlook of the industry is
an early nineteenth-century one. They make stupendous profits
when they have the chance and the worker continues as before;
if there is a slump the owners complain that they cannot carry
on without reducing wages. Not only have they the help of the
State, but also usually the sympathy of our middle-class
politicians. And yet the lot of the cotton worker in Ahmedabad
is better than that of a similar worker in Bombay and else-
where. The cotton workers, on the whole, are better off than
the jute workers of Bengal and the miners. The workers of the
small disorganised industries are lowest in the industrial scale.
To compare the magnificent palaces of the jute millionaires and
the cotton lords, with their ostentatious display of pomp and
luxury, with the wretched hovels where their semi-naked
workers live, should be an education of the most impressive
kind. But we take these contrasts for granted and pass them by,
unaffected and unimpressed.

590 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Bad as is the lot of the Indian industrial worker, it is, from
the income point of view, far better than the peasant’s lot. The
peasant has one advantage : he lives in fresh air and escapes the
degradation of the slums. But so low has he sunk that he often
converts even his open-air village into a 4 dung-heap as Gand-
hiji has called it. There is no sense of co-operation in him or
of joint effort for the good of the community. It is easy to
condemn him for this, but what is the unhappy creature to do
when life presents itself to him as a bitter and unceasing indi-
vidual struggle with every mans hand raised against him? How
he lives at all is an almost incredible wonder. It has been found
that the average daily income of typical farmers in the Punjab
was about nine annas (roughly ninepence) per head in 1928-29.
This fell in 1930-31 to nine pies (three farthings) per head I
The Punjab peasant is considered to be far more prosperous
than the peasantry of the U.P. Behar and Bengal. In some of
the eastern districts of the U.P. (Gorakhpur, etc.) in prosperous
times before the slump, the daily field wage was two annas (two-
pence). To talk of improving these staggering conditions by
philanthropy or local efforts in rural uplift is a mockery of the
peasant and his misery.

How are we to get out of this quagmire? Means can no doubt
be devised, although it is a difficult task to raise masses of
people who have sunk so low. But the real difficulty comes from
interested groups who oppose change, and under imperialist
domination the change seems to be out of the question. In
what direction will India look in the coming years? Com-
munism and fascism seem to be the major tendencies of the
age, and intermediate tendencies and vacillating groups are
gradually being eliminated. Sir Malcolm Hailey has prophesied
that India will take to National Socialism, that is, some form of
fascism. Perhaps he is right so far as the near future is con-
cerned. There are already clearly marked fascist tendencies in
India’s young men and women, especially in Bengal, but to
some extent m every province, and the Congress is beginning
to reflect them. Because of fascism’s close connection with
extreme forms of violence, the elders of the Congress, wedded
as they are to non-violence, have a natural horror of it. But the
so<alled philosophical background of fascism— the Corporate
State with private property preserved and vested interests curbed
but not done away with — will probably appeal to them. It
seems to be at first sight a golden way of retaining the old and
yet having the new. Whether it is possible both to have the
cake and eat it is another matter.

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 591

But the real drive towards fascism will naturally come from
the younger members of the middle class. Actually, at present,
it is part of the middle class in India that is revolutionary, not
so much the workers or the peasantry, though no doubt the
industrial workers are potentially more so. This nationalist
middle class is a favourable field for the spread of fascist ideas.
But fascism cannot spread here in the European sense so long
as there is a foreign government. Indian fascism must neces-
sarily stand for Indian independence, and cannot therefore ally
itself with British imperialism. It will have to seek support
from the masses. If British control were wholly removed,
fascism would probably grow rapidly, supported as it would
certainly be by the upper middle class and the vested interests.

But British control is not likely to go soon, and meanwhile
socialistic and communistic ideas are also spreading in spite of
severe repression by the British Government. The Communist
Party is illegal in India, and the term is interpreted in a loose
way to include even sympathisers and labour unions with
advanced programmes.

As between fascism and communism my sympathies are
entirely with communism. As these pages will show, I am very
far from being a communist. My roots are still perhaps partly
in the nineteenth century, and I have been too much influenced
by the humanist liberal tradition to get out of it completely.
This bourgeois background follows me about and is naturally a
source of irritation to many communists. I dislike dogmatism,
and the treatment of Karl Marx’s writings or any other books
as revealed scripture which cannot be challenged, and the regi-
mentation and heresy hunts which seem to be a feature of
modern communism. I dislike also much that has happened in
Russia, and especially the excessive use of violence in normal
times. But still I incline more and more towards a communist
philosophy.

Marx may be wrong in some of his statements, or his theory
of value; tnis I am not competent to judge. But he seems to
me to have possessed quite an extraordinary degree of insight
into social phenomena, and this insight was apparently due to
the scientific method he adopted. This method, applied to past
history as well as current events, helps us in understanding
them far more than any other method of approach, and it is
because of this that the most revealing and keen analysis of the
changes that are taking place in the world to-day come from
Marxist writers. It is easy to point out that Marx ignored or
underrated certain subsequent tendencies, like the rise of a revo-

59* JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

lutionary element in the middle class, which is so notable to-
day. But the whole value of Marxism seems to me to lie in its
absence of dogmatism, in its stress on a certain outlook and
mode of approach; and in its attitude to action. That outlook
helps us in understanding the social phenomena of our own
times, and points out the way of action and escape.

Even that method of action was no fixed and unchangeable
road, but had to be suited to circumstances. That, at any rate,
was Lenin’s view, and he justified it brilliantly by fitting his
action to changing circumstances. He tells us that: “To at-
tempt to answer 4 yes ’ or 4 no ’ to the question of the definite
means of struggle, without examining in detail the concrete
situation of a given moment at a given stage of its develop-
ment, means to depart altogether from the Marxian ground.”
And again he said: 44 Nothing is final; we must always learn
from circumstances.”

Because of this wide and comprehensive outlook, the real
understanding communist develops to some extent an organic
sense of social life. Politics for him cease to be a mere record of
opportunism or a groping in the dark. The ideals and objectives
he works for give a meaning to the struggle and to the sacrifices
he willingly faces. He feels that he is part of a grand army
marching forward to realise human fate and destiny, and he has
the sense of 4 marching step by step with history \

Probably most communists are far from feeling all this.
Perhaps only a Lenin had this organic sense of life in its fullness
which made his action so effective. But to a small extent every
communist, who has understood the philosophy of his move-
ment, has it.

It is difficult to be patient with many communists; they have
developed a peculiar method of irritating others. But they are
a sorely tried people and, outside the Soviet Union, they have to
contend against enormous difficulties. I have always admired
their great courage and capacity for sacrifice. They suffer
greatly, as unhappily untold millions suffer in various ways, but
not blindly before a malign and all-powerful fate. They suffer
as human beings, and there is a tragic nobility about such
suffering.

The success or failure of the Russian social experiments do
not directly affect the validity of the Marxian theory. It is con-
ceivable, tnough it is highly unlikely, that a set of untoward
circumstances or a combination of powers might upset those
experiments. But the value of those mighty social upheavals
will still remain. With all my instinctive dislike for much that

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 593

has happened there, I feel that they offer the greatest hope to
the world. I do not know enough and I am nbt in a position to
judge their actions. My chief fear is that the background of
too much violence and suppression might bring an evil trail
behind them which it may be difficult to get rid of. But the
greatest thing in favour of the present directors of Russia’s
destiny is that they are not afraid to learn from their mistakes.
They can retrace their steps and build anew. And always they
keep their ideal before them. Their activities in other countries,
through the Communist International, have been singularly
futile, but apparently those activities have been reduced to a
minimum now.

Coming back to India, communism and socialism seem a far
cry, unless the rush of external evetits force the pace here. We
have to deal not with communism but, with the addition of an
extra syllable, with communalism. And communally India is in
a dark age. Men of action waste their energies on trivial things
and intrigue and manoeuvre and try to overreach each other.
Few of them are interested in trying to make the world a better,
brighter place. Perhaps this is a temporary phase that will pass
soon.

The Congress has at least largely kept out of this communal
darkness, but its outlook is petty bourgeois, and the remedy it
seeks for this as for other problems is in terms of the petty
bourgeoisie. It is not likely so succeed that way. It represents to*
day this lower middle-class, for that is the most vocal and revo-
lutionary at present. But it is nevertheless not as vital as it
appears to be. It is pressed on either side by two forces — one
entrenched, the other still weak but growing rapidly. It is pass-
ing through a crisis of its existence at present; what will happen
to it in the future it is difficult to say. It cannot go over to the
side of the entrenched forces before it has fulfilled its historic
mission of attaining national freedom. But before it succeeds
in that, other forces may grow powerful and influence it in their
direction, or gradually displace it. It seems likely, however, that
so long as a large measure of national freedom is not obtained,
the Congress will play a dominant rdle in India.

Any violent activity seems to be out of the question, injurious
and waste of effort. That, I think, is generally recognised in
India, in spite of rare instances of futile and sporadic violence.
That way cannot lead us anywhere except into a hopeless maze
of violence and counter-violence out of which it will be difficult
to emerge.

We are often told that we must unite among ourselves and

594 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

present a 'united front’. Mrs. Sarojini Naidu pleads for it
eloquently with all her poetic ardour. She is a poet and entitled
to lay stress on the beauty of harmony and concord. Obviously
a ' united front ’ is always desirable, provided it is a front. An
analysis of this phrase leads one to the conclusion that what is
aimed at is a pact or compromise between various individuals at
the top. Such a combination will necessarily mean that the
most cautious and moderate will determine the objective and
lay down the pace. As some of them are well known to dislike
all movement, the result will be a united standstill. Instead of
a united front there will be a united and extensive display of
back.

It is, of course, absurd to say that we will not co-operate with
or compromise with others. Life and politics are much too
complex for us always to think in straight lines. Even the
implacable Lenin said that “to march forward without com-
promise, without turning from the path” was “intellectual
childishness and not the serious tactics of a revolutionary
class.” Compromises there are bound to be, and we should not
worry too much about them. But whether we compromise or
refuse to do so, what matters is that primary things should
come first always and secondary things should never take pre-
cedence over them. If we are clear about our principles and
objectives, temporary compromises will not harm. But danger
lies in our slurring over those principles and objectives for rear
of offending our weaker brethren. To mislead is far worse than
to offend.

I write vaguely and somewhat academically about current
events, and try to play the part of a detached onlooker. I am
not usually considered a looker-on when action beckons; my
offence, I am often told, is that I rush in foolishly without
sufficient provocation. What would I do now? What would I
suggest to my countrymen to do? Perhaps the instinctive
caution of a person who dabbles in public affairs comes in the
way of my committing myself prematurely. But, if I may
confess the truth, I really do not know and I do not try to
find out. When I cannot act, why should I worry? I do worry
to a large extent, but that is inevitable. At least, so long as
I am in prison, I try to save myself from coming to grips with
the problem of immediate action.

All activity seems to be far away in prison. One becomes the
object of events, -not the subject of action. And one waits and
waits for something to happen. I write of political and social
problems of India and the world, but what are they to this

SOME RECENT HAPPENINGS 595

little self-contained world* of gaol which has long been my
home? Prisoners have only one major interest: the date of
their release.

In Naini Prison and here in Almora many prisoners have
come to me to enquire anxiously about the jugli. I could not
at first make out what it was, but then I discovered that the
word was jubilee. They were referring to the rumours of
King George's Silver Jubilee celebrations, but they did not
know this. For them past associations had invested the word
with one meaning only: it was a partial gaol delivery or a
substantial reduction or sentences. Every prisoner, and especi-
ally the long-term ones, are therefore interested in the coming
jugli. For them the jugli is far more important than constitu-
tional reforms and Act t s of Parliament and Socialism and
Communism.

LXVIII

EPILOGUE

We ate enjoined to labour} but it is not granted to us to complete our labours.

THE TALMUD.

( have reached the end of the itory. Thii egotistical narrative of my
adventures through life, such at they are, has been brought up to to-day,
February 14, 1935, District Gaol, Almora. Three months ago to- day I
celebrated in this prison my forty-fifth birthday, and I suppose I have still
many yean to live. Sometimes a sense of age and weariness steals over
me, at other times I feel full of energy and vitality. 1 have a fairly tough
body, and my mind has a capacity for recovering from shock, so I imagine
I shall yet survive for long unless some sudden fate overtakes me. But
the future has to be lived before it can be written about.

The adventures have not been very exciting perhaps; long yean in
prison can hardly be termed adventurous. Nor have they been in any
way unique, for I have shared these yean with their ups and downs with
tens of thousands of my countrymen and countrywomen ; and this record
of changing moods, of exaltations and depressions, of intense activity and
enforced solitude, is our common record. I have been one of a mass, moving
with it, swaying it occasionally, being influenced by it; and yet, like
the other units, an individual, apart from the others, living my separate
life in the heart of the crowd. We have posed often enough and struck
up attitudes, but there was something very real and intensely truthful in
much that we did, and this lifted us out of our petty selves and made us
more vital and gave us an importance that we would otherwise not have
had. Sometimes we were fortunate enough to experience that fullness of
life which comes from attempting to fit ideals with action. And we realised

596 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

that any other life involving a renunciation of these ideals and a tame
submission to superior force, would have been a wasted existence, full of
discontent and inner sorrow.

To me these years have brought one rich gift, among many others.
More and more I have looked upon life as an adventure of absorbing in-
terest, where there is so much to learn, so much to do. I have continually
had a feeling of growing up, and that feeling is still with me and gives a
zest to my activities as well as to the reading of books, and generally makes
life worth while.

In writing this narrative I have tried to give my moods and thoughts
at the time of each event, to represent as far as I could my feelings on the
occasion. It is difficult to recapture a past mood, and it is not easy to forget
subsequent happenings. Later ideas thus must inevitably have coloured
my account of earlier days, but my object was, primarily for my own benefit,
to trace my own mental growth. Perhaps what I have written is not so much
an account of what I have been but of what I have sometimes wanted to
be or imagined myself to be.

Some months ago Sir C. P. Ramaswamy Aiyar stated in public that I
did not represent mass-feeling, but that I was all the more dangerous
because of my sacrifices and idealism and the fervour of my convictions,
which he characterised as 4 self-hypnotisation.’ A person suffering from
self-hypnosis can hardly judge himself, and, in any event, I would not
presume to join issue on this personal matter with C.P. We have not met
for many years, but there was a time long ago, when we were joint secre-
taries of the Home Rule League. Since then much has happened, and C.P.
has iisen by ascending spirals to dizzy heights and I have remained of the
earth, earthy. There is little now in common between us except our common
nationality. He is to-day a full-blooded apologist of British rule in India,
especially during the last few years ; an admirer of dictatorship in India
and elsewhere, and himself a shining ornament of autocracy in an Indian
State. We disagree about most things, I suppose, but we agree on one
somewhat trivial subject. He is absolutely right when he says that I do not
represent mass-feeling. I have no illusions on that point.

Indeed, I often wonder if I represent any one at all, and I am inclined
to think that I do not, though many have kindly and friendly feelings
towards me. I have become a queer mixture of the East and West, out of
place everywhere, at home nowhere. Perhaps my thoughts and approach
to life are more akin to what is called Western than Eastern, but India
clings to me, as she does to all her children, in innumerable ways ; and
behind me lie, somewhere in the subconscious, racial memories of a hundred,
or whatever the number may be, generations of Brahmans. I cannot get
rid of either that past inheritance or my recent acquisitions. They are both
part of me, and, though they help me in both the East and the West, they
also create in me a feeling of spiritual loneliness not only in public activities
but in life itself. I am a stranger and alien in the West. I cannot be of it.
But in my own country also, sometimes, I have an exile’s feeling.

The distant mountains seem easy of access and climbing the top beclrons.
but, as one approaches, difficulties appear, and the higher one goes the
tnore laborious becomes the journey and the summit recedes into the

POSTSCRIPT

597

clouds* Yet the climbing is worth the effort and has its own joy and satis-
faction. Perhaps it is the struggle that gives value to life, not so much the
ultimate result. Often it is difficult to know which is the right path ; it is
easier sometimes to know what is not right, and to avoid that is something
after all. If I may quote, with all humility, the last words of the great
Socrates : “ I know not what death is — it may be a good thing, and I
am not afraid of it. But I do know that it is a bad thing to desert one’s
past, and I prefer what may be good to what I know to be bad.”

The years I have spent in prison 1 Sitting alone, wrapped in my thoughts,
how many seasons I have seen go by, following each other into oblivion !
How many moons I have watched wax and wane, and the pageant of the
stars moving along inexorably and majestically ! How many yesterdays of
my youth lie buried here ; and sometimes I see the ghosts of these dead
yesterdays rise up, bringing poignant memories, and whispering to me :
“ Was it worth while ? 99 There is no hesitation about the answer. If I
were given the chance to go through my life again, with my present
knowledge and experience added, I would no doubt try to make many
changes in my personal life ; I would endeavour to improve in many ways
on what I had previously done, but my major decisions in public affairs
would remain untouched. Indeed, I could not vary them, for they were
stronger than myself, and a force beyond my control drove me to them.

It is almost exactly a year since my conviction ; a year has gone by out
of the two years of my sentence. Another full year remains, for there are
no remissions this time, as simple imprisonment carries no such deductions.
Even the eleven days that I was out in August last have been added on to
the period of my sentence. But this year too will pass, and I shall go out —
and then i I do not know, but I have a feeling that a chapter of my life
is over and another chapter will begin. What this is going to be I cannot
clearly guess. The leaves of the book of life are closed.

POSTSCRIPT

Badenweiler, Schwarzwald,
October 25, 1935

In May last my wife left Bhowali for further treatment in Europe. After
departure there were no more visits to Bhowali for me, no more fortnightly
outings and drives on the mountain roads. I missed them, and Almora
Gaol seemed to be drearier than before.

News came of the Quetta earthquake, and for a while all else was for-
gotten. But not for long, for the Government of India does not allow ue
to forget it or its peculiar ways. Soon we learnt that Rajendra Prasad, the
Congress President, and the man who knew more about earthquake relief
work than almost any other person in India, was not permitted to go to
Quetta and help in relief. Nor could Gandhiji or any other public man of
note. Many Indian newspapers had their securities confiscated for writing
articles on Quetta.

59& JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Everywhere the military mentality, the police oatlook — in the Assembly,
in civil government, in bombing on the Frontier. Almost it would seem that
the British Government in India is permanently at war with large sections
of the Indian people.

The police are a useful and a necessary force, but a world full of police-
men and the police bludgeon may not, perhaps, be a desirable place to live
in. It has often been said that an unrestrained use of force degrades the
user of it as it humiliates and degrades the object of it. Few things are
more striking to-day in India than the progressive deterioration, moral,
and intellectual, of the higher services, more especially the Indian Civil
Service. This is most in evidence in the superior officials, but it runs like a
thread throughout the services. Whenever occasion arises for making a
fresh appointment to the higher ranks, the person who represents the new
spirit best is inevitably chosen.

On September 4th I was suddenly discharged from Almora Gaol as
news had come that my wife’s condition was critical. She was under treat-
ment in Badenweiler in the Schwarzwald in Germany. My sentence was
* suspended', I was told, and I was released five and half months before
my time. I hurried to Europe by air.

Europe in turmoil, fearful of war and tumult and with economic crises
always on the horizon ; Abyssinia invaded and her people bombed ; various
imperialist systems in conflict and threatening each other ; and England,
the greatest of the imperialist Powers, standing up for peace and the League
Covenant while it bombs and ruthlessly oppresses its subject peoples. But
here in the Black Forest it is calm and peaceful, and even the swastika is
not much in evidence. I watch the mists steal up the valley and hide the
distant frontier of France and cover the landscape, and I wonder what
lies behind them.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Five and a half years ago, sitting in my prison barrack in the Almora
District Gaol, I wrote the last line of my autobiography. Eight months
later I added a postscript from Badenweiler in Germany. That autobio-
graphy, published in England, had a kindly reception from all manner of
people in various countries, and 1 was glad that what I had written had
brought India nearer to many friends abroad, and had made them
appreciate, to some extent, the inner significance of our struggle for freedom.

My publisher recently asked me to add a new chapter to the book in
order to bring it further up to date. His request is reasonable and I
could not deny it. And yet I have found it no easy matter to comply.
We live in strange times, when life’s normal course has been completely
upset. But a more serious difficulty confronted me. I wrote my auto-
biography entirely in prison, cut of! from outside activity. I suffered from
various humours in prison, as every prisoner does, but gradually I developed
a mood of introspection and some peace of mind. How am I to capture
that mood now, how am I to fit in with that narrative ? As I glance through
my book again, I feel almost as if some other person had written a story of
long ago. The five years that have gone by have changed the world and left
their impress upon me. Physically I am older of course, but it is the mind
that has received shock and sensation again and again and has hardened,
or perhaps matured. My wife’s death in Switzerland ended a chapter of
my existence and took away much from my life that had been part of my
being. It was difficult for me to realize that she was no more and I could
not adjust myself easily. I threw myself in my work, seeking some satis-
faction in it, and rushed about from end to end in India. Even more than
in my earlier days, my life became an alternation of huge crowds and
intensive activity and loneliness. My mother's death later broke a final
link with the past. My daughter was away studying at Oxford, and later
under treatment in a sanatorium abroad. I would return to my home from
my wanderings almost unwillingly, and sit in that deserted house all by
myself, trying even to avoid interviews there. I wanted peace after the
crowds.

But there was no peace in my work or my mind, and the responsibility
that I had to shoulder often oppressed me very greatly. I could not align
myself with various parties and groups ; I did not even fit in with my
closest colleagues. I could not function as I wanted to, and at the same time
I prevented others from functioning as they wanted to. A sense of sup-
pression and frustration grew and I became a solitary figure in public life,
though vast crowds came to hear me and enthusiasm surrounded me.

I was affected more than others by the development of events in Europe
and the Far East. Munich was a shock hard to bear and the tragedy of
Spain became a personal sorrow to me. As these years of horror succeeded
one another, the sense of impending catastrophe overwhelmed me, and
my faith in a bright future for the world became dim.

And now the catastrophe has come. The volcanoes in Europe spit fire
and destruction, and here in India I sit on the edge of another volcano,
not knowing when it may burst. It is difficult to tear myself away from the

599

600 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

problem of the moment, to develop the mood of retrospection and survey
these five years that have gone by, and write calmly about them. And even
if I could do so, I would have to write another big book, for there is so much
to say. I shall endeavour therefore, as best I may, to refer briefly only to
certain events and developments in which I have played a part or which
have affected me.

I was with my wife when she died in Lausanne on February 28, 1936.
A little while before news had reached me that I had been elected president
of the Indian National Congress for the second time. I returned to India
by air soon after and on my way, in Rome, I had a curious experience.
Some days before my departure^ a message was conveyed to me that Signor
Mussolini would like to meet me when I passed through Rome. In spite
of my strong disapproval of the Fascist regime, I would ordinarily have
liked to meet Signor Mussolini and to find out for myself what a person
who was playing such an important part in the world’s affairs was like.
But I was in no mood for interviews then. What came in my way even more
was the continuance of the Abyssinian campaign and my apprehension
that such an interview would inevitably be used for purposes of Fascist
propaganda. No denial from me would go far. I remembered how Mr.
Gandhi ji, when he passed through Rome in 1931, had a bogus interview
in the GiornaU £ Italia fastened on to him. I remembered also several
other instances of Indians visiting Italy being used, against their wishes,
for Fascist propaganda. I was assured that nothing of the kind would
happen to me and that our interview would be entirely private. Still I
decided to avoid it and I conveyed my regrets to Signor Mussolini.

I could not avoid going through Rome, however, as the Dutch K.L.M.
airplane I was travelling by spent a night there. Soon after my arrival in
Rome, a high official called upon me and gave me an invitation to meet
Signor Mussolini that evening. It had all been fixed up, he told me. I
was surprised and pointed out that I had already asked to be excused.
We argued for an hour, till the time fixed for the interview itself, and
then I had iny way. There was no interview.

I returned to India and plunged into my work. Within a few days of
my return I had to preside over the annual session of the National Congress.
For some years, which I had spent mainly in prison, I had been out of touch
with developments. I found many changes, new alignments, a hardening
on party lines within the Congress. There was an atmosphere of suspicion
and bitterness and conflict. I treated this lightly, having confidence in
my own capacity to deal with the situation. For a short while I seemed
to carry the Congress in the direction 1 wanted it to go. But I realised
soon that the conflict was deep-rooted and it was not so easy to charm
away the suspicion of each other and the bitterness that had grown in
our ranks. I thought seriously of resigning from the presidentship but,
realising that this would only make matters worse, I refrained.

Again and again, during the next few months, I considered this question
of resignation. I found it difficult to work smoothly with my own colleagues
It tiin Congress executive, and it became clear to me that they viewed
tty activities with apprehension. It was not so much that they objected
tb any specific act but they disliked the general trend and direction. They

FIVE YEARS LATER

601

had justification for this as my outlook was different. I was completely
loyal to Congress decisions but I emphasized certain aspects of them,
while my colleagues emphasized other aspects. I decided finally to resign
and I informed Gandhiji of my decision. In the course of my letter to
him I wrote that “ since my return from Europe I have found that the
meetings of the Working Committee exhaust me greatly ; they have a
devitalising effect on me and I have almost the feeling of being much older
in years after every fresh experience. I should not be surprised if this
feeling was also shared by my colleagues of the Committee. It is an un-
healthy experience and it comes in the way of effective work.”

Soon afterwards a far-away occurrence, unconnected with India,
affected me greatly and made me change my decision. This was the news
of General Franco’s revolt in Spain. I saw this rising, with its background
of German and Italian assistance, developing into a European or even a
world conflict. India was bound to be drawn into this and I could not
afford to weaken our organisation and create an internal crisis by resigning
just when it was essential for us to pull together. I was not wholly wrong
in my analysis of the situation, though I was premature and my mind
rushed to conclusions, which took some years to materialise.

The reaction of the Spanish War on me indicates how, in my mind,
the problem of India was tied up with other world problems. More and
more I came to think that these separate problems, political or economic,
in China, Abyssinia, Spain, Central Europe, India, or elsewhere, were
facets of one and the same world problem. There could be no final solution
of any one of them till this basic problem was solved. And in all probability
there would be upheaval and disaster before the final solution was reached.
As peace was said to be indivisible in the present day world, so also freedom
was indivisible, and the world could not continue for long part free,
part unfree. The challenge of fascism and nazism was in essence the
challenge of imperialism. They were twin brothers, with this variation,
that imperialism functioned abroad in colonies and dependencies, while
fascism and nazism functioned in the same way in the home country
also. If freedom was to be established in the world not only fascism
and nazism had to go but imperialism had to be completely liquidated.

This reaction to foreign events was not confined to me. Many others
in India began, to some extent, to feel that way, and even the public was
interested. This public interest was kept up by thousands of meetings and
demonstrations that the Congress organised all over the country in sym-
pathy with the people of China, Abyssinia, Palestine and* Spain. Some
attempts were also made by us to send aid, in the shape of medical supplies
and food, to China and Spain. This wider interest in international affairs
helped to raise our own national struggle to a higher level, and to lessen
somewhat the narrowness which is always a feature of nationalism.

But, inevitably, foreign affairs did not touch the life of the average
person, who was absorbed in his own troubles. The peasant was full of his
growing difficulties, his appalling poverty, and of the many burdens that
crushed him. The agrarian problem was, after all, the major problem of
India and the Congress had gradually evolved an agrarian programme,
which though going far, yet accepted the present structure. The industrial

602 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

worker was little better off and there were frequent strikes. Politically-
minded people discussed the new constitution that had been imposed
upon India by the British Parliament. This constitution, though giving
some power in the Provinces, kept the reality of power in the hands of
the British Government and their representatives. For the Central
Government a Federation was proposed which tied up feudal and auto-
cratic States with semi-democratic Provinces, and was intended to per-
petuate the British imperialist structure. It was a fantastic affair, which
could never work, and which had every safeguard that the wit of man
could devise to protect British vested interests. This Constitution was
indignantly rejected by the Congress, and in fact there was hardly any
one in India who had a good word for it.

At first the Provincial part of it was applied. In spite of our rejection
of the Constitution, we decided to contest elections as this brought us
into intimate touch not only with millions of voters, but also others.
This general election was a memorable affair for me. I was not a candidate
myself but I toured all over India on behalf of Congress candidates, and
I imagine that I created some kind of a record in the way of election
campaigns. In the course of about four months I travelled about fifty
thousand miles, using every kind of conveyance for this purpose, and often
going into remote rural areas where there were no proper means of trans-
port. I travelled by aeroplane, railway, automobile, motor lorry, horse
carriages of various kinds, bullock cart, bicycle, elephant, camel, horse,
steamer, paddle-boat, canoe, and on foot.

I carried about me microphones and loud speakers and addressed a dozen
meetings a day, apart from impromptu gatherings by the roadside. Some
mammoth gatherings approached a hundred thousand ; the average audience
was usually twenty thousand. The daily total of persons attending was
frequently a hundred thousand, and sometimes it was much greater.
On a rough estimate it can be said that ten million persons actually
attended the meetings I addressed, and probably several million more
were brought into some kind of touch with me during my journeying
by road.

I rushed about from place to place from the northern frontiers of India
to the southern seas, taking little rest, kept up by the excitement of the
moment and the enormous enthusiasm that met me. It was an extra-
ordinary feat of physical endurance which surprised me. This election
campaign, in which large numbers of people took part on our behalf,
stirred up the whole countryside and a new life was visible everywhere.
For us it was something much more than an election campaign. We were
interested not only in the thirty million voters but also in the hundreds
of millions of others who had no votes.

There was another aspect of this extensive touring which gripped me.
For me it was a voyage of discovery of India and her people. I saw a thou-
sand facets of this country of mine in all their rich diversity, and yet always
with the unifying impress of India upon them. I gazed at the millions
of friendly eyes that looked up at me and tried to understand what lay
behind them. The more I saw of India, the more I felt how little I knew
of her infinite charm and variety, how much more there was for me to

FIVE YEARS LATER 603

find out. She seemed to smile at me often, and sometimes to mock at me
and elude me.

Sometimes, though rarely, I took a day off and visited some famous
sight near by — the Ajanta Caves or Mohenjo Daro in the Indus Valley.
For a brief while I lived in the past and the Bodhisatvas and the beautiful
women of the Ajanta Frescoes filled my mind. Some days later I would
start with surprise as I looked at some woman, working in the fields or
drawing water from a village well, for she would remind me of the women
of Ajanta.

The Congress triumphed in the general election and there was a great
argument as to whether we should accept ministries in the Provinces.
Ultimately it was decided that we should do so, but on the understanding
that there would be no interference from the Viceroy or the Governors.

In the summer of 1937 I visited Burma and Malaya. It was no holiday
as crowds and engagements pursued me everywhere, but the change was
pleasant and I loved to see and meet the flowery and youthful people of
Burma, so unlike, in many ways, the people of India with the stamp
of long ages past upon them.

New problems faced us in India. In most of the Provinces Congress
Governments were in power, and many of the Ministers had spent years
in prison previously. My sister, Vijaya Lakshmi Pandit, became one of
the Ministers in the United Provinces — the first woman Minister in India.
The immediate effect of the coming of the Congress Ministries was a feeling
of relief in the countryside, as if a great burden had been lifted. A new
life coursed through the whole country and the peasant and the worker
expected big things to happen immediately. Political prisoners were re-
leased and a large measure of civil liberty, such as had not been known
previously, was established. The Congress Ministers worked hard and
made others work hard also. But they had to work with the old apparatus
of government, which was wholly alien to them and often hostile. Even
the services were not under their control. Twice there was a conflict
with the Governors and the Ministers offered their resignations. There-
upon the Governors accepted the viewpoint of the Ministers and the
crisis ended. But the power and influence of the old services — the Civil
Service, the Police, and others— backed by the Governor and buttressed
by the Constitution itself, were great and could make themselves felt in a
hundred ways. Progress was slow and dissatisfaction arose.

This dissatisfaction found expression in the Congress itself and the more
advanced elements grew restive. I was myself unhappy^ at the trend of
events as I noticed that our fine fighting organisation was being converted
gradually into just an electioneering organisation. A struggle for inde-
pendence seemed to be inevitable and this phase of provincial autonomy
was just a passing one. In April 1938 I wrote to Gandhiji expressing my
dissatisfaction at the work of the Congress* Ministries. “ They are trying
to adapt themselves far too much to the old order and trying to justify
it. But all this, bad as it is, might be tolerated. What is far worse is that
we are losing the high position that we have built up, with so much labour,
in the hearts of the people. We are sinking to the level of ordinary
politicians.”

604 jawaharlal nbhru

I was perhaps unnecessarily hard on the Congress Ministers ; the fault
lay much more in the situation itself and in the circumstances. The record
of these Ministries was in fact a formidable one in numerous fields of national
activity. But they had to function within certain limits, and our problems
required going outside these limits. Among the many good things that
they did was the agrarian legislation they passed, giving considerable relief
to the peasantry, and the introduction of what is called Basic Education.
This Basic Education is intended to be made free and compulsory for every
child in the country for seven years, from the age of seven to fourteen.
It is based on the modern method of teaching through a craft, and it has
been so evolved as to reduce the capital and recurring cost very greatly,
without in any way impairing the efficiency of education. For a poor
country like India with scores of millions of children to educate, the
question of cost is important. This system has already revolutionised
education in India and is full of promise.

Higher education was also tackled vigorously, and so also Public Health,
but the efforts of the Congress Governments had not borne much fruit
when they finally resigned. Adult literacy, however, was pushed with
enthusiasm and yielded good results. Rural reconstruction also had a great
deal of attention paid to it.

The record of the Congress Governments was impressive, but all this
good work could not solve the fundamental problems of India. That
required deeper and more basic changes and an ending of the imperialistic
structure which preserved all manner of vested interests.

So conflict grew within the Congress between the more moderate and
the more advanced sections. The first organised expression of this took
place in a meeting of the All India Congress Committee in October 1937.
This distressed Gandhiji greatly and he expressed himself strongly in
private. Subsequently he wrote an article in which he disapproved of some
action I had taken as Congress President.

I felt that I could no longer carry on as a responsible member of the
Executive but I decided not at do anything to precipitate a crisis. My
term of office as Congress President was drawing to an end and I could
drop out quietly then. I had been President for two successive years and
three times in all. There was some talk of my being elected for another
term but I was quite clear in my own mind that I should not stand.
About this time I played a little trick which amused me greatly. I wrote
an article, which was published anonymously in the Modem Review of
Calcutta, in which I opposed my own re-election. No one, not even the
editor, knew who had written it, and I watched with great interest its
reaction on my colleagues and others. All manner of wild guesses were
made about the writer, but very few people knew the truth till John
Gunther mentioned it in his book “ Inside Asia.”

Subhas Bose was elected President of the next Congress session which
was held at Haripura, and soon afterwards I decided to go to Europe.
I wanted to see my daughter, but the real reason was to freshen up my
tired and puzzled mind.

But Europe was hardly the place for peaceful contemplation or for
light to illumine the dark corners of the mind. There was gloom there

FIVE TEARS LATER

605

and the apparent stillness that comes before the storm. It was the Europe
of 1938 with Mr. Neville Chamberlain’s appeasement in full swing and
marching over the bodies of nations* betrayed and crushed, to the final
scene that was staged at Munich. I entered into this Europe of conflict
by flying straight to Barcelona. There I remained for five days and watched
the bombs fall nightly from the air. There I saw much else that impressed
me powerfully ; and there, in the midst of want and destruction and ever-
impending disaster, I felt more at peace with myself than anywhere else
in Europe. There was light there, the light of courage and determination
and of doing something worth while.

I went to England and spent a month there and met people of all
degrees and all shades of opinion. I sensed a change in the average man,
a change in the right direction. But there was no change at the top where
Chamberlainism sat triumphantly. And then I went to Czechoslovakia
and watched at close quarters the difficult and intricate game of how to
betray your friend and the cause you are supposed to stand for on the
highest moral grounds. I followed this game during the Munich crisis
from London, Paris and Geneva and came to many strange conclusions.
What surprised me most was the utter collapse, in the moment of crisis,
of all the so-called advanced people and groups. Geneva gave me the
impression of archaeological remains, with the dead bodies of the hundreds
of international organisations that had their headquarters there, lying
about. London exhibited tremendous relief that war had been averted
and cared for little else. Others had paid the price and it did not matter ;
but it was going to matter very much before a year was out. The star of
Mr. Chamberlain was in the ascendant, though protesting voices were
heard. Paris distressed me greatly, especially the middle class section of it,
which did not even protest over much. This was the Paris of the Revolution,
the symbol of liberty the world over.

I returned from Europe sad at heart with many illusions shattered.
On my way back I stopped in Egypt where leaders of the Wafd Party gave
me a warm welcome. I was glad to meet them again and to discuss our
common problems in the light of the fast developing world situation.
Some months later a deputation from the Wafd Party visited us in India
and attended our annual Congress session.

In India the old problems and conflicts continued and I had to face the
old difficulty of how to fit in with my colleagues. It distressed me to see
that on the eve of a world upheaval many Congressmen were wrapped up
in these petty rivalries. Yet there was some sense of proportion and under-
standing among Congressmen in the upper circles of the organisation.
Outside the Congress, the deterioration was much more marked. Com-
munal rivalry and tension had increased and the Moslem League, under
Mr. M. A. Jinnah’s leadership, was aggressively anti-nationalist and narrow-
minded and continued to pursue an astonishing course. There was no
constructive suggestion, no attempt even to meet half-way, no answers
to questions as to what exactly they wanted. It was a negative programme
of hatred and violence, reminiscent of Nazi methods. What was particularly
distressing was the growing vulgarity of communal organisations which
was affecting our public life. There were of course many Muslim

606 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

organisations and large numbers of Muslims who disapproved of the
activities of the Moslem League and favoured the Congress.

Following this course, the Moslem League inevitably went more and
more astray till it stood openly against democracy in India and even for
the partition of the country. They were encouraged in these fantastic
demands by British officials, who wanted to exploit the Moslem League,
as all other disruptive forces, in order to weaken the Congress influence.
It was astonishing that just when it became obvious that small nations
had no further place in the world, except as parts of a federation of nations,
there should be this demand for a splitting up of India. Probably the
demand was not seriously meant, but it was the logical consequence of
the two nation theory that Mr. Jinnah had advanced. The new develop-
ment of communalism had little to do with religious differences. These
admittedly could be adjusted. It was a political conflict between those
who wanted a free, united and democratic India and certain reactionary
and fuedal elements who, under the guise of religion, wanted to preserve
their special interests. Religion, as practised and exploited in this way by
its votaries of different creeds, seemed to me a curse and a barrier to all
progress, social and individual. Religion, which was supposed to encourage
spirituality and brotherly feeling, became the fountain head of hatred,
narrowness and meanness, and the lowest materialism.

Matters came to a head in the Congress at the presidential election
early in 1939. Unfortunately Maulana Abul Kalam Azad refused to stand
and Subhas Chandra Bose was elected after a contest. This gave rise to all
manner of complications and deadlocks which persisted for many months.
At the Tripuri Congress there were unseemly scenes. I was at that time
very low in spirit and it was difficult for me to carry on without a break-
down. Political events, national and international happenings, affected
me of course, but the immediate causes were unconnected with public
affairs. I was disgusted with myself and in a press article I wrote : “ I
fear I give little satisfaction to them (my colleagues), and yet that is not
surprising, for I give even less satisfaction to myself. It is not out of this
stuff that leadership comes and the sooner my colleagues realised this the
better for them and me. The mind functions efficiently enough, the in-
tellect is trained to carry on through habit, but the springs that give life
and vitality to that functioning seem to dry up.”

Subhas Bose resigned from the Presidentship and started the Forward
Bloc, which was intended to be almost a rival organisation to the Congress.
It petered out after a while, as it was bound to do, but it added to the
disruptive tendencies and the general deterioration. Under cover of fine
phrases, adventurist and opportunist elements found platforms, and I
could not help thinking of the rise of the Nazi Party in Germany. Their
way had been to mobilise mass support for one programme and then to
utilise this for an entirely different purpose.

Deliberately I kept out of the new Congress Executive. I felt I could
not fit in and 1 did not like much that had been done. Gandhiji’s fast
in connection with Rajkot and the subsequent developments upset me.
I wrote then that the “ sense of helplessness increases after the Rajkot
events. I cannot function where I do not understand, and I do not

FIVE YEARS LATER

607

understand at all the logic of what has taken place.” “ More and more/’ I
added, “ the choice before many of us becomes difficult, and this is no
question of Right or I*eft or even of political decisions. The choke is of
unthinking acceptance of decisions which sometimes contradict each
other and have no logical sequence, or opposition, or inaction. Not one
of these courses is easily commendable. To accept unthinkingly what one
cannot appreciate or willingly agree to produces mental flabbiness and
paralysis. No great movement can be carried on on this basis ; certainly
not a democratic movement. Opposition is difficult when it weakens us
and helps the adversary. Inaction produces frustration and all manner of
complexes when from every side comes the call for action. 0

Soon after my return from Europe at the end of 1938, two other
activities claimed my attention. I presided over the All India States*
Peoples* Conference at Ludhiana and thus became even more intimately
connected with the progressive movements in the semi-feudal Indian
States. In large numbers of these States there had been a growing ferment,
occasionally leading to clashes between the peoples’ organisations and the
authorities, which were often helped by British troops. It is difficult to
write in restrained language about those States or about the part that the
British Government has played in maintaining these relics of the middle
ages. A recent writer has rightly called them Britain’s Fifth Column in
India. There are some enlightened Rulers who want to side with their
people and introduce substantial reforms, but the Paramount Power
comes in the way. A democratic State will not function as a Fifth Column.

It is clear that these five hundred and fifty odd States cannot function
separately as political or economic units. They cannot remain as- feudal
enclaves in a democratic India. A few large ones may become democratic
units in a federation, the others must be completely absorbed. No minor
reforms can solve this problem. The States system will have to go and it
will go when British Imperialism goes.

My other activity was the chairmanship of a National Planning Com-
mittee which was formed under Congress auspices with the co-operation
of the Provincial Governments. As we proceeded with this work, it grew
and grew, till it embraced almost every phase of national activity. We
appointed twenty-nine sub-committees for various groups of subjects —
agricultural, industrial, social, economic, financial — and tried to co-
ordinate their activities so as to produce a scheme of planned economy
for India. Our scheme will necessarily be in outline which will have to be
filled in later. The Planning Committee is still functioning and is not
likely to finish its labours for some months more. For me this has been
fascinating work and I have learnt much from it. It is clear that any
scheme that we may produce can only be given effect to in a free India.
It is also clear that any effective planning must involve a socialisation of
the economic structure.

In the summer of 1939 I paid a brief visit to Ceylon as friction had
grown there between the Indian residents and the Government. I was
happy to be back again in that beautiful island and my visit, I think, laid
the foundations for closer relations between India and Ceylon. I had the
most cordial of welcomes from everybody, including the Cingalese

608 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

members of the Government. I have no doubt that in any future order
Ceylon and India must hang together. My own picture of the future is a
federation which includes China and India, Burma and Ceylon, Afghanistan
and possibly other countries. If a world federation comes, that will be
welcome.

The situation in Europe in August 1939 was threatening and I did not
want to leave India at a moment of crisis. But the desire to visit China,
even for a short while, was strong. So I flew to China and within two days
of my leaving India, I was in Chungking. Very soon I had to rush back
to India as war had at last descended upon Europe. I spent less than two
weeks in free China but these two weeks were memorable ones both
personally for me and for the future relations of India and China. I found,
to my joy, that my desire that China and India should draw closer to each
other was fully reciprocated by China’s leaders, and more especially by
that great man who has become the symbol of China’s unity and her
determination to be free. I met Marshal Chiang Kai-shek and Madame
Chiang many times and we discussed the present and the future of our
respective countries. I returned to India an even greater admirer of China
and the Chinese people than I had been previously, and I could not imagine
that any adverse fate could break the spirit of these ancient people, who
had grown so young again.

War and India. What were we to do ? For years past we had thought
about this and proclaimed our policy. Yet in spite of all this, the British
Government declared India to be a belligerent country without any
reference to our people, to the Central Assembly, or to the Provincial
Governments. That was a slight hard to get over, for it signified that
imperialism functioned as before. The Congress Working Committee
issued a long statement in the middle of September 1939, in which our
past and present policy was defined and the British Government was
invited to explain their war aims, more particularly in regard to British
Imperialism. We had frequently condemned Fascism and Nazism but
we were more, intimately concerned with the imperialism that dominated
over us. Was this imperialism to go ? Did they recognise the independence
of India and her right to frame her own constitution through a Constituent
Assembly ? What immediate steps would be taken to introduce popular
control of the Central Government. Later, in order to meet every possible
objection of any minority group, the idea behind the Constituent Assembly
was further amplified. It was stated that minority claims would be settled
in this Assembly with the consent of the minority concerned, and not by
a majority vote. If such agreement was not possible in regard to any issue,
then this was to be referred to an impartial tribunal for final decision.
This was an unsafe proposal from a democratic point of view, but the Con-
gress was prepared to go almost any length in order to allay the suspicions
of minorities.

The British Government’s answer was clear. It left no doubt that they
were not prepared to clarify their war aims or to hand over control of the
Government to the people’s representatives. The old order continued,
and was to continue, and British interests in India could not be left un-
protected. The Congress Ministries in the Provinces thereupon resigned

FIVE YEARS LATER

609

as they were not prepared to co-operate o& these terms in the prosecution
of the war. The Constitution was suspended and autocratic rule was re-
established. The old constitutional conflict of western countries between
an elected parliament and the king’s prerogative, which had cost the heads
of two kings in England and France, took shape in India. *But there was
something much more than this constitutional aspect. The volcano was
not in action, but it was there and rumblings were heard.

The impasse continued and, meanwhile, new laws and ordinances
descended upon us by decree, and Congressmen and others were arrested
in ever growing numbers. Resentment grew and a demand for action on
our side. But the course of the War and the peril of England itself made
us hesitate, for we could not wholly forget the old lesson which Gandhiji
had taught us, that our objective should not be to embarrass the opponent
in his hour of need.

As the War progressed, new problems arose, or the old problems took
new shape, and the old alignments seemed to change, the old standards to
fade away. There were many shocks and adjustment was difficult. The
Russo-German Pact, the Soviet’s invasion of Finland, the friendly approach
of Russia towards Japan. Were there any principles, and standards of con-
duct in this world, or was it all sheer opportunism ?

April came and the Norwegian ddbacle. May brought the horrors of
Holland and Belgium. June, the sudden collapse of France, and Paris,
that proud and fair city, nursery of freedom, lay crushed and fallen. Not
only military defeat came to France but, what was infinitely worse, spiritual
submission and degradation. How did all this come about, I wondered,
unless there was something rotten at the core. Was it that England and
France were the outstanding representatives of an old order that must
pass, and therefore they were unable to hold out ? Was it that imperialism,
though apparently giving them strength, really weakened them in a struggle
of this nature ? They could not fight for freedom if they denied it
themselves, and their imperialism would turn to unabashed fascism, as it
had done in France. The shadow of Mr. Neville Chamberlain and his old
policy still fell on England. The Burma-China route was being closed in
order to appease Japan. And here in India there was no hint at change,
and our self-imposed restraint was understood to mean an incapacity to
do anything effective. The lack of any vision in the British Government
amazed me, their utter incapacity to read the signs of the times and to
understand what was happening and adapt themselves to it. Was this some
law of nature that in international happenings, as in .other fields, cause
must inexorably be followed by effect ; that a system that had ceased to
have any useful function could not even defend itself intelligently ?

If the British Government was slow of understanding and could not
learn even from experience, what can one say* about the Government of
India ? There is something comic and something tragic about the
functioning of this Government, for nothing seems to shake it out of its
age-long complacency ; neither logic nor reason, neither peril nor disaster.
Like Rip Van Winkle they sleep, even though waking, on Simla hill.

The developments in the War situation posed new questions before the
Congress Working Committee. Gandhiji wanted the Committee to extend

6lO JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

the principle of non-violence, to which wc had adhered in our struggle for
freedom, to the functioning of a free State. A free India must rely on this
principle to guard itself against external aggression or internal disorder.
This question did not arise for us at the time, but it occupied his own mind
and he felt that the time had come for a clear enunciation. Every one of
us was convinced that we must adhere to our policy of non-violence, as
we had so far done, in our own struggle. The War in Europe had strengthened
this conviction. But to commit the future State was another and a more
difficult matter, and it was not easy to see how anyone moving on the
plane of politics could do it.

Mr. Gandhiji felt, and probably rightly, that he could not give up or
tone down a message which he had for the world. He must have freedom
to give it as he liked and must not be kept back by political exigencies.
So for the, first time, he went one way and the Congress Working Com-
mittee another. There was no break with him for the bond was too strong,
and he will no doubt continue to advise in many ways and often to lead.
Yet it is perhaps true that by his partial withdrawal, a definite period in
the history of our national movement has come to an end. In recent years
I have found a certain hardness creeping into him, a lessening of the
adaptability that he possessed. Yet the old spell is there, the old charm
works, and his personality and greatness tower over others. Let no one
imagine that his influence over India’s millions is any the less. He has been
the architect of India’s destiny for twenty years and more, and his work is
not completed.

During the last few weeks, the Congress, at the instance of C. Rajago-
palachari, made yet another offer to Britain. Rajagopalachari is said to
belong to the Right in the Congress. His brilliant intellect, selfless character,
and penentrating powers of analysis have been a tremendous asset to our
cause. He was the Prime Minister of Madras during the functioning of
the Congress Government there. Eager to avoid conflict, he put forward
a proposal which was hesitatingly accepted by some of his colleagues. This
proposal was the acknowledgment of India’s independence by Britain and
the immediate formation at the centre of a Provisional National Govern-
ment, which would be responsible to the present Central Assembly. If
this was done, this Government would take charge of Defence and thus
help in the war effort.

This Congress proposal was eminently feasible and could be given effect
to immediately without upsetting anything. The National Government
was inevitably going to be a composite affair with full representation of
minority groups. The proposal was definitely a moderate one. From the
point of view of Defence and war effort, it is patent that any serious effort
involves the confidence and co-operation of the people. Only a national
government has the chance to get this. It is not possible through imperialism.

But imperialism thinks otherwise and imagines that it can continue to
function arid to coerce people to do its will. Even when danger threatens,
it is not prepared to get this very substantial help, if this involves a giving
up of political and economic control over India. It does not care even for
the tremendous moral prestige which would come to it, if it did the right
thing in India and the rest of the Empire.

FIVE YEARS LATER

6l!

Today, on August 8th 1940, as I write this, the Viceroy has given us
the British Government’s reply. It is the old language of imperialism and
the content has changed in no way. The sands of time run out here in
Indian as in Europe and the world.

So many of my colleagues have gone back to prison and I envy them
somewhat. Perhaps it is easier to develop an organic sense of life in the
solitude of confinement than in this mad world of war and politics, and
fascism and imperialism.

But sometimes there is an escape, for a while at least, from this world.
Last month I went back to Kashmir after an absence of twenty-three years.
I was only there for twelve days, but these days were filled with beauty,
and I drank in the loveliness of that land of enchantment. I wandered
about the Valley and the higher mountains and climbed a glacier, and felt
that life was worth while.

Jawaharlal Nehru.

Allahabad,

August St A, 1940.

APPENDIX A

PLEDGE TAKEN ON INDEPENDENCE DAY

January 2 6tk, 1930

We believe that it is the inalienable right of the Indian people, as of any
other people* to have freedom and to enjoy the fruits of their toil and have
the necessities of life, so that they may have full opportunities of growth.
We believe also that if any government deprives a people of these rights
and oppresses them, the people have a further right to alter it or to abolish
it. The British Government in India has not only deprived the Indian
people of their freedom but has based itself on the exploitation of the
masses, and has ruined India economically, politically, culturally, and
spiritually. We believe, therefore, that India must sever the British con-
nection and attain Purna Swaraj or complete independence.

India has been ruined economically. The revenue derived from our
people is out of all proportion to our income. Our average income is seven
pice (less than two pence) per day, and of the heavy taxes we pay, 20 per
cent, are raised from the land revenue derived from the peasantry and
3 per cent, from the salt tax, which falls most heavily on the poor.

Village industries, such as hand-spinning, have been destroyed, leaving
the peasantry idle for at least four months in the year, and (lulling their
intellect for want of handicrafts, and nothing has been substituted, as in
other countries, for the crafts thus destroyed.

Customs and currency have been so manipulated as to heap further
burdens on the peasantry. British manufactured goods constitute the bulk
of our imports. Customs duties betray clear partiality for British manu-
facturers, and revenue from them is used not to lessen the burden on the
masses but for sustaining a highly extravagant administration. Still more
arbitrary has been the manipulation of the exchange ratio which has re-
sulted in millions being drained away from the country.

Politically, India’s status has never been so reduced as under the British
regime. No reforms have given real political power to the people. The
tallest of us have to bend before foreign authority. The rights of free
expression of opinion and free association have been denied to us, and many
of our countrymen are compelled to live in exile abroad and cannot return
to their homes. All administrative talent is killed, and the masses have
to be satisfied with petty village offices and clerkships.

Culturally, the system of education has torn us from our moorings, and
our training has made us hug the very chains that bind us.

Spiritually, compulsory disarmament has made us unmanly and the
presence of an alien army of occupation, employed with deadly effect to
crush in us the spirit of resistance, has made us think that we cannot look
after ourselves 0/ put up a defence against foreign aggression, or even
defend our homes and families from the attacks of thieves, robbers, and
miscreants.

We hold it to be ? crime against man and God to submit any longer to
a rule that has caused this fourfold disaster to our contry. We recognise,
however, that the most effective way of gaining oiir freedom is not through

612

APPENDICES

613

violence. We will therefore prepare ourselves by withdrawing, so far as we
can, all voluntary association from the British Government, and will
prepare for civil disobedience, including non-payment of taxes. We are
convinced that if we can but withdraw our voluntary help and stop pay-
ment of taxes without doing violence, even under provocation, the end
of this inhuman rule is assured. We therefore hereby solemnly resolve to
carry out the Congress instructions issued from time to time for the purpose
of establishing Purna Swaraj.

APPENDIX B

Letter dated August 15/i, 1 930, sent by Congress leaders in Yeravda Prison
to Sir Tej Bahadur Sapru and Mr, M . R. Jayakar containing suggested
conditions for peace.

Yeravda Central Prison,
iSth August, 1930.

Dear Friends,

We are deeply grateful to you for having undertaken the duty of trying
to effect a peaceful settlement between the British Government and the
Congress. After having perused the correspondence between yourselves
and His Excellency the Viceroy, and having had the benefit of protracted
talks with you, and having discussed among ourselves, we have come to
the conclusion that the time is not yet ripe for securing a settlement
honourable for our country. Marvellous as has been the mass awakening
during the past five months, and great as has been the suffering of the people
among all grades and classes representing the different creeds, we feel that
the sufferings have been neither sustained enough nor large enough for
the immediate attainment of the end. Needless to mention, we do not in
any way share your view or the Viceroy’s that civil disobedience has harmed
the country or that it is ill-timed or unconstitutional. English history
teems with instances of bloody revolts whose praises Englishmen have sung
unstintingly and taught us to do likewise. It therefore ill becomes the
Viceroy or any intelligent Englishman to condemn a revolt that is in in-
tention, and that has overwhelmingly remained in execution, peaceful,
but we have no desire to quarrel with condemnation, whether official or
unofficial, of the present civil disobedience campaign. The wonderful
mass response to the movement is, we hold, iti sufficient justification.
What is, however, the point here is the fact that we gladly make common
cause with you in wishing, if it is at all possible, to stop or suspend civil
disobedience. It can be no pleasure to us needlessly to expose the men,
women and children of our country to imprisonment, latni charges and
worse. You will, therefore, believe us when we assure you, and through
you the Viceroy, that we would leave no stone unturned to explore any and
every channel for honourable peace, but we are free to confess as yet we
see no such sign on the horizon. We notice no symptom of conversion of
the English official world to the view that it is India’s men and women

614 jawaharlal nehru

who must decide what is best for India. We distrust the pious declarations
of the good intentions, often well meant, of officials. The age-long exploita-
tion by the English of the people of this ancient land has rendered them
almost incapable of seeing the ruin moral, economic and political, of our
country which this exploitation has brought about. They cannot persuade
themselves to see that the one thing needful for them to do is get off our
backs and do some reparation for the past wrongs by helping us to grow
out of the dwarfing process that has gone on for a century of British
domination.

But we know that you and some of our learned countrymen think differ-
ently. You believe a conversion has taken place, at any rate, sufficient to
warrant participation in the proposed Conference. In spite, therefore,
of the limitation we are labouring under, we would gladly co-operate
with you to the extent of our ability.

The following is the utmost response it is possible for us, circumstanced
as we are, to make to your friendly endeavour :

(l) We feel the language used by the Viceroy in the reply given to your
letter about the proposed conference is too vague to enable us to assess
its value in terms of the National Demand framed last year in Lahore,
nor are we in a position to say anything authoritative without reference
to a properly constituted meeting of the Working Committee of the
Congress and, if necessary, to the All- India Congress Committee ; but
we can say that for us individually no solution will be satisfactory unless

(a) it recognises, in as many words, the right of India to secede at
will from the British Empire,

( b ) it gives to India complete national government responsible to her
people, including the control of defence forces and economic control,
and covers all the eleven points raised in Gandhiji’s letter to the Viceroy,
and

(i c ) it gives to India the right to refer, if necessary, to an independent
tribunal such British claims, concessions and the like, including the so-
called public debt of India, as may seem to the National Government
to be unjust or not in the interest of the people of India.

Note . — Such adjustments as may be necessitated in the interests of
India during the transference of power to be determined by India’s
chosen representatives.

(a) If the foregoing appears to be feasible to the British Government
and a satisfactory declaration is made to that effect, we should recommend
to the Working Committee the advisability of calling off civil disobedience,
that is to say, disobedience of certain law9 for the sake of disobedience.
But peaceful picketing of foreign cloth and liquor will be continued unless
Government themselves can enforce prohibition of liquor and foreign
cloth. The manufacture of salt by the people will have to be continued
and the penal clauses of the Salt Act should not be enforced. There will
be no raids on Government or private salt depots.

(3) Simultaneously with the calling off of civil disobedience

(a) all the satyagraha prisoners and other political prisoners, con-
victed or under trial, who have not been guilty of violence or incitement
to violence, should be ordered to be released ;

APPENDICES 615

(b) properties confiscated under the Salt Act, the Press Act, the
Revenue Act, and the like, should be restored ;

(<r) fines and securities taken from convicted satyagrahas or under the
Press Act should be refunded ;

(d) all the officers, including village officers, who have resigned or
who may have been dismissed during the civil disobedience movement
and who may desire to rejoin Government service, should be reinstated.

Note . — The foregoing sub-clauses refer also to the non-co-operation
period.

(e) All the Viceregal Ordinances should be repealed.

(4) The question of the composition of the proposed Conference and
of the Congress being represented at it, can only be decided after the
foregoing preliminaries are satisfactorily settled.

Yours sincerely,

Motilal Nehru
M. K. Gandhi
Sarojini Naidu
Vallabhbhai Patel
Jairamdas Doulatram
Syed Mahmud
Jawaharlal Nehru

APPENDIX C

RESOLUTION OF REMEMBRANCE

January 2 6tA, 1931

We, the citizens of ... . record our proud and grateful appreciation of
the sons and daughters of India who have taken part in the great struggle
for independence and have suffered and sacrificed so that the motherland
may be free ; of our great and beloved leader, Mahatma Gandhi, who has
been a constant inspiration for us, ever pointing to the path of high pur-
pose and noble endeavour ; of the hundreds of our brave youths who have
laid down their lives at the altar of freedom ; of the martyrs of Peshawar
and the whole Frontier Province, Sholapur, Midnapur District, and
Bombay ; of the scores of thousands who have faced ahd suffered barbarious
lathi attacks from the forces of the enemy ; of the men of the Garhwali
Regiment, and all other Indians in the military and the police ranks of
the Government, who have refused, at the peril of their own lives, to fire
or take other action against their own countrymen ; of the indomitable
peasantry of Gujrat, which has faced without flinching and turning back
all manner of acts of terrorism, and the brave and long-suffering peasantry
of the other parts of India, which has taken full part in the struggle despite
every effort to suppress it ; of the merchants and the other members of
the commercial community, who have helped, at great loss to themselves,

6l6 JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

in the national struggle and especially in the boycotts of foreign cloth
and British goods ; of the one hundred thousand men and women who have
gone to the prisons and suffered all manner of privation and sometimes
assaults and beatings even inside the gaol walls ; and especially of the
ordinary volunteer who, like a true soldier of India, without care of fame
or reward, thinking only of the great cause he served, has laboured un-
ceasingly and peacefully through suffering and hardship.

And we record our homage and deep admiration for the womanhood
of India, who, in the hour of peril for the motherland forsook the shelter
of their homes and, with unfailing courage and endurance, stood shoulder
to shoulder with their menfolk in the front line of India’s national army,
to share with them the sacrifices and triumphs of the struggle ; and our
pride at the youth of the country and the Vanar Sena, whom even their
tender age could not prevent from participating in the struggle and offering
martyrs for the cause.

And, further, we record our grateful appreciation of the fact that all
the major and minor communities and classes in India have joined to-
gether in the great struggle and given of their best to the cause ; of,
particularly, the minority communities — the Muslims, Sikhs, Parsis,
Christians and others who, by their valour and loyal devotion to the cause
of the common motherland, have helped in building up a united and in-
dissoluble nation, certain of victory, and resolved to achieve and maintain
the independence of India, and to use this new freedom to raise the
shackles from, and to remove the inequalities among, all classes of the
people of India, and thus also to serve the larger cause of humanity. And
with this splendid and inspiring example of sacrifice and suffering in India’s
cause before us, we repeat our Pledge of Independence, and resolve to
carry on the fight till India is completely free.

INDEX

Abyssinii, 600, 601
Afghanistan, 608

Aga Khan, The, 117, *93, 194, 465-468
Agra, a, 3, 33*1 4 * 3 n

Ahmedabad, 42, 88, 100, 126, 210, 212,
148, 365, 589

Aiyar, Sir C. P. Ramaswamy, 532, 596
Aimer, 459
Akalis, 109
Akbarpur, 61

Ali, Maulana Mohamad, 45, 46, 71, 72,

78, 87, 90, 99, 117-1*0, 139, 466

Munshi Mubarak, 8

M. Shankat, 46

Syed Raza, 46, 71, 72, 78, 90, 466
Aligarh College, 463, 464, 466, 470, 471,
473

Alipore Gaol, 358, 495 - 49 *, 5 ° 4 , 5 ° 7 , 5 ° 9 >
,,5*3, 553 , 554 , 559

Allahabad, 3-6, 8, 10, 12, 15, 13, 30, 32,
33 , 35 , 4 *, 46 , 51, 53 , 50, 60, 67, 71,

79, 80, 88, 96, 100, 101, 113, 114, 1 2 1 ,
' 33 , Ho-14*, ' 47 , '78, *02, 212, 214,
* 3 '-* 33 > * 35 ** 37 , * 39 , * 4 °, * 43 , * 45 *
*47, *49, *<>*, *68, 287, 298, 305, 312,
316-319, 323, 320, 334, 335, 338, 450,
473 , 479 j 481, 484, 49 ', 5 »', 564

Almora Prison, 356, 568, 569, 571, 595,

Aluvihare. Bernard, 323
Amanullan, 50, 471
Amaranath, 430
Ambala, 114

Amritsar. 42-44, 71, 109, 115, 190
Anand Bhawan, 96, 225, 234, 332, 335
Andaman Islands, 316, 384, 386
Andrews, Charles F., 66, 375, 385, 398
Aney, Mr. 573

Ansari, Dr., M. A., 17, 108, 168, 169, 189,
246,251,309,466
Anuradhapura, 271
Apollonius of Tyana, 1 5
Asansol 361
Aurungzeb, 1

Azad, Chandrashekhar, 261, 262

Maulana Abul Kalam, 90, 97, 195,

227, 466, 606

Babu, Raiendra, 391, 484, 489
Badaun, 5

Badenweiler, 597-599
Badrinath, 430
Bakulia, 332
Baldwin, Roger, 1 54
Bangalore, 273
Bardoli Satyagraha, 171

Bareilly District Gaol, 335, 336, 346,

Barkatulfa^’ J^oulvi, 151

Baroda, Gaekwar of, 1 8

Basu, Bhupendra Nath, 27

Behar, 54, 338, 463, 481, 484, 485, 488-

„ 49°> 5 536
Belgaum, 132'

Benares, 8, 15, 274, 420, 456, 458, 501

Gaol, 350 >

Hindu University, 1 58

Bengal, 18, 23, 24, 27, 20, 34, 54, 70, 80,
140, 175, 188, 193, 261, 274, 276-278,
*85, 309, 311-313, 315, 3 * 1 , 34 *. 3 * 4 ,
39i, 395, 4°;, 463, 466, 479, 48*, 498,
„ 536, 575, 576, 589, 59°

Bennett, Mr., 579
Berlin, 10, 161

Besant, Mrs. Annie, 14-16, 31, 32, 34,

m. ,67 ^ 53J
Bharadwaj, 203

Bhowali, 568, 571, 599

Bikaner, Maharaja of, 530

Blavatsky, Madame, 1 5

BWriot, 18

Block, Ivan, 20

Blunt, Wilfrid Scawen, 64

Boer War, 1 2

Bolton, Glomey, 286

Bombay, 3, 26, 29, 47, 100, 124, 147, 181,

187, 215, 216, 227, 228, 238, 245, 248,

*49, *55, *74, *85, 3'*, 3'7*3'9» 3*',

3*3, 3*4, 3*8, 3®4, 365, 395, 4°4, 4«5,

407,450,571,589 „ , ,

Bose, Subhas, 173, 197, 395, 570, 604, 606
Brailsford, Mr. H. N., 535
Brooks, Ferninand T., 14, 16
Brussels, 161

Buchman, Frank, 154, 155
Burma, 603, 608
Butler, Sir Harcourt, 50, 92

Calcutta, 3, 27, 29, 59, 63, 65-67, 80, 87,
100, 133, 184-188;* 191, 197, 201, 236,
*40, *43, 3'5, 3 i 6 , 36o, 361, 364, 365,
389, 39°, 395, 407, 475 , 479 - 481 , 4 * 3 ,
„ 49*, 493, 553
Cama, Madame, 151
Cambrai, 447
Cambridge, 279, 395
Campbell-Bannerman, Sir H., 17
Casement, Roger, 35

Cawnpore, 3, 4, 147, 269, 270, 325, 338,

„ V, 6 ’ 535 <

Ceylon, 247, 271, 272, 274, 277, 323, 612
Chamba, 132, 133

6i8

JAWAHARLAL NBHRU

Chamberlain, Neville, 386, 605, 609
Ownpira", 15, 49
Charvaka, no

Chattopadhyaya, Virendranath, 153, 154
Chauri Chaura, 81, 8a, 84, 8c, 124, 200
Chelmsford, Lord, 540
Chetwode, Sir Philip, 446
Chiang Kai-shek, Marshal, 608
Chiang Kai-shek, Madame, 608
China, 601, 608
Chintamani, C. Y., 32, 423
Chirol, Sir valentine, 67, 464, 465
Chittagong, 313-315
Christa, Seva Sangh, 37c
Chungking, 612

Churchjll, Mr. Winston, 391, 584
Civil Disobedience Movement, 85, 120
Cochin, *7*, 173, 531
Coconada, 117, 120, 121
Cologne, 164
Colombo, 165
Comorin, Cape, 272, 430
Congress, The National, passim
Coomaraswamy, Dr. Ananda, 433
Cooper, Frederick, 329
Cowasji, Sir, 299
Currie, Sir William, 579

Dalhousie, 132, 133
Dandi, 213

Darm Pandit, Bishan Narayan, 13
Dai, Mr. C. R., 4a, 43, 50, 64, 65, 67, 7a,

79 . * 7 . 94 . 99 . 100 > I0 4 > 107. >°8. '* 5 ,
ia6, 1 as, 13a, 133, 159, 160, 53a

latindranath, 193, 194

David, E. V., 376

Dayal, Har, 22

Defence of India Act, 3 1

Dehra Dun Prison, 50, 233, 271, 336, 345,

346, 349. 353. as*. 35*. 385. 39*. 553.

Delhi, 1, 2, 14, 37, 4 *- 4 Si ,0 9 » "°) ” 4 ,
119, *39» >4°» l6o » 168-170, 176, 182,
i95» 2 5°) 2 5 6 , 262, 267, 301, 309, 360,
3 * 1 ) 473,475

New, 29, 171, 251, 321, 438

Desai, Mahadev, 94
Dewey, Professor John, 380
Dickinson, G. Lowes, 19, 28
Digby, William, 426
Doulatram, Jairamdas, 229
Dumont, Santos, 18
Dttsseldorf, 164
Dutch Indies, 230
Dutt, B. K. r 192
-* — Romesh, 426
Dwarka, 430
Dyer, General, 43

Ebbing, Kraft, 20

Edpe. Sir John, 287
Edinburgh, 243, 249
Epypt, 609
Einstein, 163
Ellis, Havelock, 20
Elwin, Mr. Verrier, 392, 403
Emerson, Mr., 299, 300
Etawah, 318, 319

Farman, 18
Farrukhsiar. 1
Foch, Marshal, 334
Forster, E. M., 28
Franco, General, 604
Frasad, Rajendra, 488
Freud, ic

Friedericnshafen, 25 •

Frontier Province, 280, 285, 311-313, 321,

„ 3 2 7 , 342 , 39 i» 555
Pyzabad, 53, 61

Gandhi, Devadas, 94

Gandhiji, 29, 34, 35, 41, 42, 44-47, 49, 54,
61, 63-68, 71-73, 75-77, 8 1-88, 90, 95,
99 . io 4 . 1 * 9 . ,2 4 » '*6, I2 7 > '29-132,
• 3 ®. ' 39 . ' 54 , '67, 169, * 73 . '85, '86,
191, 192, 194, 195, 197, 202, 207, 209,
210, 212, 213, 215, 223, 227-229, 245-
*47, 2 49- 2 58, *60, 261 , 265-269, 274-277,
279, 280, 282-292, 294, 295, 299, 300,
303, 305, 307, 309-313, 317-310, 321,
3*2, 327, 328, 330-338, 365, 368, 370-
373 , 379 , 38 ', 384-386, 397 , 3 j 8 , 4 ° 2 -
406, 408-410, 412, 413, 418, 451,
473-478, 489, 49 °, 494 , 5 ° 4 , 5 ° 5 >
5 ° 7 - 5 ' 3 , S 1 5*5*8, 520-523, 525, 526,
528, 532 - 540 , 542, 544 , 547 - 549 , 554 ,
555 , 558 , 5 6 3 - 565 , 573 , 574 , 58*, 59 °,
597, 600, 601, 603, 604, 606, 609,6109615
Ganges, 8, 57, 121, 122, 247
Gaya, 107

Geneva, 23, 148-150, 154, 155, 158, 186,
1 99 , 6°5

German Occupation of Europe, 614
Ghose, Aravindo, 21

Syt Motilal, 66

Ghosh, Sir Rash Behary, 35, 36
Gidwani, A. T., no, 115, 1 16
Gokhale, G. K., 22, 27, 30, 36, 64, 195,
22 3 » 44 i
Gorakhpur, 191

Gujrat, 54, 108, 171, 231, 265, 337, 405,
4*9, 536

Gunther, John, 608
Gupta, Shiva Prasad, 456
Gurdwara Movement, 109, 115
Guru-Ka-Bagh, 109

Haig, Lord, 447
Sir Harry, 584

INDEX

619

Hailey, Sir Malcolm, 265, 277, 303, 501,
59 ?

Harda, 230
Hardayal, 152, 153

Hardiker, Dr. N. S., 120, 121, 316, 317

Harrison, Mr., 3

Harrow, 14, 17

Hart, Captain Liddell, 447

Heard, Mr. Gerald, 412

Hearn, Lafcadio, 16

Henderson, Mr. Arthur, 583

Hijli, 313, 314

Hindu Mahasabha, 157, 159, 169, 382,
458, 459, 466, 467, 534 , 55 6 * 576 , 577
Hindu University, Benares, 533
Hindustani Seva Dal, 120, 121
Hitler, 153, 341, 364, 4*4
Hoare, Sir Samuel, 322, 325, 571, 582
Home Rule League, 31, 32
Hubli, 317

Hunter Committee of Inquiry, 43
Hyderabad, 272-274, 532

India House, 22, 149

Indian Defence Force, 32

Inner Temple, 279

International Labour Office, 148, 149

Iqbal, Sir Mohamad, 459

Iradatganj, 319

Irwin, Lady, 247

Lord, 195, 197, 226, 228, 230, 247,

. * 49 , * 5 °, * 5 6 “ 2 5 8 , 26 °, 28 3 , 2 99 , 3 22
Ismail, Sir Mirza, 501
Italy ? 1 51
Itsan, 230

Iyer, Sir, P. S. Swaswamy, 424

Uff:.., *72

Jaito, 109-1 1 1, 1 15

Jallianwala Bagh, 42, 43, 71, 190, 213

Jamalpur, 485

jambusar, 212

Jamshedpur, 188

Jayakar, M. R., 226, 227, 229, 231, 286,
468

Jeliicoe, Lord, 447
Jharia, 186, 187

Jinnah, M. A., 67, 197, 466, 532, 605, 606

Joffre, Marshal, 447

Joseph, George, 94,05

Joshi, N. M., 186, 187

Jubbulpore, 473, 475

Juhu, 124

Jumna, 121, 234

Kabul, 158, 450, 471
Kaira, 40
Kalka, 28c
Kapurthala, 18
Karachi, 87, 265, 267-270
Karnatak, 337

Karnataka, 316-318
Kashipur, 349

Kashmir, i, 8, 30, 37, 269, 532
Kaul, Raj, 1

Kelkar, Mr. N. C., 532, 533
Kemal Pasha, 471

Khan, Khan Abdul Ghaffar, 202, 265,
274, 278-280, 319, 556,570

Hakim Ajmal, 168-170, 279, 319

Sir Syed Ahmad, 460-464, 470

Khaparde, Mr., 36
Khetri State, 2

Khilafat Question, 40, 45-47, 63, 69, 71,
85, 8 7 , 99 , i°°, * 6 9 , 47 *

Khudai Khidmatgars, 555, 556

Khwaja, A. M., 22

Kidwai, Rafi Ahmad, 307, 401, 479

Kjng, Mr., ,79

Kirkee, 228

Kitchlew, Saif-ud-Din, 22
Komagata Maru. 40

Krishnavarma, Snyamaji, 22, 23, 148, 149
Kunzu, Pandit Hriday Nath, 409
Kuo-Min-Tang, 161, 162

Lahore, 43, 120, 174, 176, 190, 193-195,
I97, 201, 202

Laksh mi, Vijaya Pandit, 603
Lai Bazaar Police Station, 493

Mirza Mohan, 14

Lambert, Comte de, 25
Lansbury, Mr. George, 162
Latham, 18
Lausanne, 600
Lawes, Lewis E., 220
League of Nations, 148, 149
Lindberg, 25
Lloyd, Lord, 467, 468
Lloyd George, Mr., 329. 447, 586
London, 17, 120, 164, 381, 605
Lucknow, 32, 33, 35, 56, 91, 147, 169, 172,
* 73 . 1 77 - ‘ 79 - > 94 . * 33 . * 44 , * 4 °, * 47 ,
*6*, 3 ° 5 , . 33 ?, 399 , 4 <>S, 45 °, 4 «», 5 »*
Lucknow District Gaol, 93, 95, 98, 356,

45 6

Lytton, Lord, 501

MacDonald, Ramsay, 241, 370, 515, 583
Madras, no, 165, 167, 168, 182, 477
Maharashtra, 18, 23, 53
Mahmud, Syed, 22, 216, 225, 228, 229,
2 3°» 2 35

11 Mailis , 21, 22
I Malabar, 182, 272, 273
Malaviya, Kami Dev, 112

Pandit, Madan Mohan, 34, 42, 121-

l2 3 » > 57 -* 59 » 2i6 » 2i8 » 2 3 °» 361,
458, 533 * 534 * 573
Malaya. 603
Marseilles, 165

Martin, Lieut.-Colonel, 229, 230

620

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Marx, 591

Mean, Sir Grim wood, 10 1
Meerut, 71, 189, 199

Case, 364

Mehta, Jivraj, 246

Menon, Mr. V. K. Krishna, 583

Minto,Lord, 465

Minto-Morley Scheme, 27

Monghyr, 485, 488

Montagu, Edwin, 21, 33

Montagu-Chelmsford Report, 33, 36, 41,

44 , 375 o
Montana, 148
Montreux, 150
Moonje, Dr., 391
Moplah, 87
Morley, John, 500
Moscow, 154, 164, 268
Moslem League, 31, 46, 47, 67, 605, 606
Muir Central College, 3
Mukerii, Dhan Gopal, 1 54
Munich, 599, 605
Mussolini, 341, 601
Muttoorie, jo, 51, 57, 116, 131, *33
Muzaffarpur, 484, 487, 488
Mysore, 271, 273, 502

Nabha, 109-114, 116, 125, 134
Gaol, 115

Nartur, 60, 67, 69, 10*, 197, 199
Naidu, Sarojini, 35, 67, 212, 229

Mr». Sarojini, *74, 29a, 53a, 594

Naini, 227, 229, 230, 234, 235, 240, 277,

3f 5> 3 I0 » 553 , „

Gaol, 92, 120, 210, ai*. 226, 228,

238, 239, 243-245, *79. 3**-3*4,
33«, 349, 356, 39*, 565, 5*6, 56*, 595
Naoroji, Dadabhai. 426
Nath, Raja Narendra, 169
Nehru, Bansi Dhar, 2
Ganga Dhar, 2

Mn., 7, 16, 247, 324, 333 - 335 , 345 ,

39*, 399, 4 01 , 45°- 4*«, 49*> 5 6 5

Indira, 271, 345, 371, 483, 561, 562

Nehru, lawaharlal, early family history,
1-5: home life in childhood, 5 -n;
“ Anand Bhawan ”, iz\ “ prayashchit”,
” purdah”, 13; English studies and
Theosophy, 14, 15 ; family sail for Eng-
land, 16; Harrow and Trinm' College.
Cambridge, 18-20; “The Magpie ana
Stump”, 21; Inner Temple, 24;
an adventure in Norway, called to the
Bar, return to India, 26 ; join the High
Court, 28 ; relations of English with
Indians, 29 ; Mrs. Besant and
English politics, - 32 ; politics, a
thorny subject, 34; losing interest in
law, 15 ; married, 37 ; an adventure in
the Himalayas, J7> 38; the Rowlatt
Bills, 40 ; Gandhiji and Satyagraha

Sabha, 41 ; visit Amritsar, 43 ; non-
violence non-co-operation movement,
45-4 7 ; shortcomings of “ nationalist ”
newspapers, 48 j kisan (peasant) move-
ment, 49; their misery, $2; Rama-
chandra's agitation, 53 j vices of the
zamindari system, 54 ; visit the villages,
56; growing agrarian movement, <7-
59; a telegram from Rae Bareli, 60;
the “ charkha ” seditious, 61 ; trouble
in Fyzabad, 61, 62 ; Swaraj, 63 ; Con-
gress politics, 65-70; nervousness of
British officials, fears of a rising, 70, 71 ;
nationalism in 1921, 75 ; absorbed in
Swaraj, 76 ; arrested, 79; Prince of
Wales r s visit, 80; mass arrests, civil
resistance suspended, 81 \ Gandhiji
arrested, 81 : Gandhiji’ s policy, 85, 86;
communal friction, 87; am released,
88 ; boycott of foreign cloth, 89 ; sen-
tenced again, 89 ; imprisonment and
prison life, 90-97; release^ 98; Allaha-
bad Municipality, 100; Sir Grimwood
Mean, 10 1 ; social relations, 101, 102;
criticism of native Ministers, 102, 103 ;
money troubles, 106 ; salaried posts,
107; Congress troubles, Swarajists and
No-changers, Gurdwara movement,
108, 109 ; Jaito, Nabha gaol and Nabha
procedure, 110-112; Indian State ad-
ministration, 113; release and illness,
114, 115; Secretary of the All-India
Congress, 117; religious feuds, com-
munal auestion, 118-120; Hindustani
Seva Dal, 121 ; bathing in the Ganges,
121-123; trip to Juhu, 124; rift in
Congress, Gandhiji and Swarajists, the
“ spinning franchise ”, 124-128 ;Hindu-
Muslim tension, renegade Congressmen,
132-136; reform or revolution, 137;

hunting, 138; Nationalist Muslim
Party, Unity Conferences, 138 ; Ram
Lila celebration, 14 1 ; municipal work,
why local bodies are inefficient, 142-
146; resign my chairmanship, 147;

? uiet days in Switzerland, 148-151 ;
ndian political exiles, 152-154; visit
England, 156; a new Nationalist
Party, 157-159; canker of com-
munalism, 159, 160; Congress of Op-
pressed Nationalities in Brussels, 161,
162 ; return home to politics again, 165,
166 ; a batch of resolutions, 167 ; Con-
gress Secretaryship, 168; Republican
Conference, 168 ; Trade Union move-
ment, 170; oeasants' agitation, 171;
Simon Commission, Nehru Committee,
171, 172; difficulties at All-Parties
Conference, 172, 173; incident in
Lahore, 174 ; waning of terrorism, 175 ;
Bhagat Singh, 1 77 ; Simon Commission

INDEX

021

Nehru, Jawaharlal — ( Continued \
at Lucknow, 178*180; independence
and social freedom, 182, 1 83 ; rumours
of arrest, 184; All-India Trade Union
Congress, 186 ; president of the T.U.C.,
187; arrests of labour leaders, 188;
Meerut Case Defence Committee, 1 89 ;
khadi propaganda, iqi, 192; terronst
activity, hunger strike, 193 ; succeed
father as president of Congress, 194;
Round Table Conference announced,
195; interview with Lord Irwin, 197;
Congress and Labour, 198; Whitley
Commission, 198 ; split in Labour
movement, 199 ; Lahore Congress and
Independence, 201 j Independence Day,
202 ; visits from pilgrims, 203 ; popu-
larity and hero-worship, 204-208 ;
Civil Disobedience, 209 ; Dandi Salt
March, 210; arrested, 213; women in
the national struggle, 214; Naim
Central Prison, 217; prison population,
horrors of prison system, 220-224 ;
peace efforts, 227-229 ; release, 23 1 ;
no-tax campaign, 221-233 ; rearrested,
234; Civil Disobedience spreads,
233 ; fear of agrarian upheaval, 237 ;

B nson floggings, 238 : life in Naini, 239 ;

.ound Table Conference, dominion,
status, alarm of vested interests, 241,
242 ; Resolution of Remembrance, 243 ;
delegates return home, 249 ; talks at
Delhi, 250-256; the Delhi Pact. 257;
Civil Disobedience prisoners released,
263 ; agrarian problem, 264 j Karachi
Congress, 265, 266; interview with
M. N. Roy, 265 ; Ahrar Party, Hindu-
Muslim riots, 269; Ceylon, 271 ; back
to India, 272 ; White Jews, Syrian
Christians, 273 ; second Round Table
Conference, 276 ; Bengal Terrorism,
agrarian riots, 277 ; Khudai Khid-
matgar, 278 ; “ Frontier Gandhi ”,
279 ; India’s basic problem is the land,
281 ; second Round Tabic Con-
ference, 285 ; journalist fictions,
286-290 ; Conference unsatisfactory,
292 ; jobbery, reaction and vested
interests, 293-295 ; agrarian trouble
in the U.P., 297 ; starving peasantry,
rent and debts, 302-308 ; repressive
policy, 309 ; approaching crisis, 309 ;
incident in Hijli, 313; Chittagong
shooting, 314; unwisdom of terrorism,
315, 316; special Ordinance, public
activities forbidden, arrested, 317-320 ;
condemned to rigorous imprisonment,
322 ; Congress declared illegal, and
abused by the Press, 323-326 • Govern-
ment coercion, 327-329 severe treat-
ment of women, 3^0; release and re-

arrest, n6 ; Civil Disobedience practi-
cally killed, 338; third Round Table
Conference, 341 ; police punitive
measures, whippings, treatment of
women prisoners, 342, 343 ; gaol
routine. 348 ; Dehra Dun Gaol, 331 ;
wasps, hornets, bats and other animals,
355-359; thoughts about Russia and
world conditions, 361-363; Communist
criticism of Congress, 365 ; political
independence the aim of Congress, 366 ;
the peasantry, 368 ; the depressed
classes, 372; the intrusion of religion,
374-380; Hariian movement, 381;
Sarda Act a failure, 383 ; further sus-
pension of Civil Disobedience, 384 ; the
White Paper, 386; how received by
Liberals and Responaivists, 388-390;
release, 398 ; India under coercion, 399 ;
persona] matters to attend to, 402 :
talks with Gandhiji, 403 ; Socialism and
Communism in India, 407 ; Indian
Liberals a colourless and vanishing
species, 409-413 ; Congress originally a
middle-class body, 416; “ Indiani-
sation ”, 417; “ Dominion Status”,
418; “Tiger of Imperialism”, 419;
White Paper a barrier to progress, 423 ;
British protection is Indian subjection,
427; English ignorance of India, 429;
Bharat Mata, 431 ; what has British
rule done for India, 433-436; India a
servile State, 437 ; sycophancy and nepo-
tism, 440; adulation of the I.C.S.,
441-444; burden of the Defence Ser-
vices, 446 ; ineptitude of Generals, 447 ;
language question in India, 453, 454 ;
my address at the Hindu University,
458 ; Communalism in India partly a
struggle for jobs, 460-466 ; the “ Muslim
nation 469; “ Muslim culture ”,
470 ; religion and politics parting com-
pany, 472 ; fear of rearrest, 473 ; Press
articles and censorship, 475 ; attend to
domestic affairs, 478 ; Independence
Day, 479 ; earthquake, 481 ; I denounce
terrorism in Bengal, 482; earthquake
relief work, 484-407 ; return from relief
work and rcarrest, 491 ; Court pro-
ceedings in Calcutta, 493 ; imprisoned
for the seventh time, 404; Alipore
Central Gaol, 495-497; liberty under
an eclipse, 498 j not intended for India,
500 ; Civil Disobedience withdrawn,
504 ; Gandhiji* s reasons, 505 ; recognise
Gandhiji’s services, 508 ; some criticism
of Gandhiji’s philosophy of life, 51 1-
519; the myth of a past Golden Age,
520 ; Socialism the cure for world evils,
523 ; the khadi movement, 524 ; village
industries, 525 ; mass production; 527 ;

622

JAWAHARLAL NEHRU

Nehru, Jawaharlal — ( Continued ),
democracy and capitalism incompatible,
529; autocracy of the Indian states,
530 ; rapacity of the money-lender, 535 ;
the doctrine of non-violence examined,
537-55 1 ; transferred to Dehra Dun,
553 ; confusion in Congress ranks, 555 ;
Congress bans class-war and looks for-
ward to the elections, 557 ; begin this
autobiographical narrative, 559; tem-
porary release, 560, 561 ; retrospect of
married life, 562 ; local squabbles, 564 ;
back to Naim Prison, 565 ; journey to
Almora Gaol, 568, 569 ; Bombay session
of Congress, Gandhiji's withdrawal,
573, 574; the Communal Award, 575 ;
tne Ottawa agreements, 578-581;
position of Indian Princes improved,
584; India and British foreign policy,
586 ; vested interests alarmed at pros-
pect of change, 587-590; poverty of
the peasantry, 590; signs of Fascism,
590, 59 1 i Marxism, 591, 502 ; the clog
of Communalism, 593, the “ united
front ”, 594 ; the jugli, 595 ; my book
erJed, and survey of past activities,
59;-598; deterioration of the I.C.S.,
it* release from Almora, 598 ; in the
Black Forest, 598 ; wifr s death in
Lausanne, 599, 600 ; elected President
of Congress, travels through Rome,
difficulties of presiding over Congress,
6co ; tours India for Congress candi-
dates, 602 visit to Burma and Malaya,
dissatisfaction with Congress ministers,
603 ; journey to England, Czecho-
slovakia, Paris, Geneva, and return via
Egypt, 605 ; avoids inclusion in Con-
gress executive, 60S ; President of All
India States’ People's Conference, and
Chairman of National Planning Com-
mittee, 607 j visit to Ceylon, 607 :
visit to China, meets Marshal and
Madame Chiang Kai-shek, 608 ; visit
to Kashmir, 61 1 .

Nehru, Kamala, 212, 214, 224, 226, 231,
*33**36, *40, *44, *48, 271 , 274, 3 ' 7 ,
3 <«, 3 H> 345 , 45 °, 479 * 4 ®i, 483, 49 ',
494 , 5 * 4 , S 54 , 561-56*, 570 , 57 i, 59 **
600.

Krishna, 21 2, 240, 402, 450, 494

Lakshmi Narayan, 2

Mohanlal, 323

Pandit MotiW, 3-8, 10-13, 15-17,

22-25, 3 V 34 > 3 $> 4 *> 4 *> 44 » 5 °)

64, 65, 79, 88, 92, 101, 104-107, 1 13,
126, 129-132, <6o, 164, 165, 169,
178, 184, 185, 195, 202-205, 207,
212-214, 216, 225-231, 232-236, 240,
243, 245-247, afo, 332, 387
Nand Lai, 2, 4, 8

Nepal, 488
Nevinson, H. W., 23
Newton, 83
Nietzsche, 19
Norway, 25, 26
Nuwara Eliya, 247, 271

Obeidulla, Moulvi, 151, 159

Olcutt, Colonel, 15

Oudh, 53, 59, 62, 1 71, 298, 463

Barons of, 53

Tenancy Law, 58

Oxford Group Movement, 154, 155

Pal, Bepin Chandra, 22
Palestine, 604

Pandit, Ranjit S., 30, 147,' 231, 235, 239,

*44, *45., *47, 3*3, 345, 5®6

Pant, Govind Ballabh, 177, 178, 180, 264,

„ 3°5, 3°7, 346, 349

Pans, 605

Partabgarh, 51, 53, 57, 59-61
Passchendale, 447

Patel, Sardar Vallabhbhai, 100, 171,
**8, *65, 322, 527, 533

Vithalbhai, 100, 190, 195, 197, 229,

286-288, 309, 395, 458
Pater, Walter, 20, 65
Patiala, 109

Maharaja of, 530

Patna, 484, 491, 554
Peshawar, 214
Pillai, Cnampakraman, 153
Pirow, Mr. O., 580
Pole, Major D. Graham, 441
Poona, 19, 24, 124, 228, 230, 371, 372, 375,
385, 390, 402, 409, 450
Prakasa, Sri, 297
Prasad, Narmada, 230, 235, 323
Prasad, Rajendra, 59Q
Pratap, Raja Mahendra, 150, ici
Prince of Wales, 79, 87, 205, 280
Punjab, 18, 31, 34 , 40 , 54i °3i 6 $, 69,

71, 90, 109, 140, 159, 169, 172, 174,
175, 182, 190, 265, 269, 466, 467, 536,

5 f °

Pun, 430
Pythagoras, 15

Quetta, 597

Rae Bareli, 53, 60, 6i, 332

Rai, Lala Lajpat, 18, 22, 63, 64, 72, 15I1

157-1599 »74-i77) *93

Raipur, 213

Rajagopalachari, C., 95, 382, C?o
Rajputana, 2, 531
Ramachandra, 51, 53
Rangoon, 236
Reading^ Lord, 70, 87
Responsivisti, 132, 413

INDEX

6*3

Revolt of 1857* 2, 8, 21, 41
Rolland. Romain, 154, 163, 380
Rome, 317, 600
Roosevelt, President, 586
Rowlatt Bills, 40, 41
Roy, Bidan Chandra, 246
Roy, M. N., 154. 189, 267, 268
Russell, Bertrand, 35
Russia, 361, 609
Russo- Japanese War, 16

Sabarmati, 210

Prison, 88

Saha, Gopinath, 126
Sanatanists, 382, 408, 575
Santanum, K., 110. 115
Santiniketan, 66, 453, 484, 561
Sapru, Sir Tej Bahadur, 12, 32-34, 125,
169, 172, 196, 197, 226-229, 2 3‘> 2 43>
249, 286, 386, 41 I, 468, 582
Sastri, Srinivas, 30, 31-33, 36, 68, 125,
2 43 > * 49 , 3 * 9 - 39 *. 409, +12, 421
Satyagraha Sabha, 41, 61, 73, 83, 90, 109,
122, ! 27, 1 3 1, 213, 255, 288, 392, 505,
506

Seeley, 66

Sen-Gupta, J. M., 22, 314, 395
Servants of India Society, 30, 36, 390, 409,
4 10

Shankar, Udai^ 404
Sharma, Balkrtshna, 94
Sherwani, Tasadduk Ahmad, 22, 228, 297,
3 ° 5 . 3 °*. 3 ,0 > 3 ", 3 '*. 319 . 3 22 , 3 * 3 .
33 >

Svlapur, 224, 317
Shraddhananda, Swami, 42, 161
Siegfried, M. Andri, 428
Sikhs, 109, 140, 159

Simla, 36, 267, 284, 285, 301, 305, 306,

,81

Sind. 140, 159, 401, 466, 467
Sindh, 47
Singapore, 236

Singh, Bhagat, 174, 175, 192, 193, 261,

265, 266

Kunwar Anand, 349

Narmada Prasad, 225

Paramjit, 18

— — S. Ajitj 18, 193

Sing Sing Prison, 220, 350
Slade, Madeleine, 330
Slocombe, Mr., 227
Sobani, Umar, 255
Sohagpur, 230
Spain, 601

Spender, J. A., 342
Sulaiman, S. M., 22
Sun Yat Sen, Madame, 163
Surat, 23

Swaraj, 65, 69, 73, 76, 104, 107, 126, 127,
i57-ifc>» 167, 217, 223, 242,
* 4 *, 3 « 7 * 417 * 5 ° 4 , 555
— — Bhawan, 212, 245, 332, 481
Switzerland, 147, 151, 156

Tagore, Roro Dada, 66
Rabindra Nath, 2, 66, 385, 483, 490,

Taj lV?ah 5 al, 3, 130

Tandon, Purushottam Das, 94, 298, 308,
310,318,401

Tawney, Professor R. H., 421
Teheran, 450
Tempelhof Field, 25
Tewary, Venkatesh Narayan, 307
Theosophical Convention, 15

Society, 15

Thompson, Edward, 43

Tilak, Locomanya, 18, 21, 23, 27, 31, 36,

^44,47,63,90,388

Toller, Ernst, 154

Townsend, Meredith, 21

Travancore, 272, 273, 531

Tripuri Congress, 606

Turkey, 40

United Provinces, The, 54, 182, 232,
*37-*39> *64, 176, 277, 284, 285, 297,
3 ° 3 , 3 ° 7 , 3 ° 9 , 3 >'- 3 ' 3 , 3 ' 7 , 3 *', 3 * 7 ,
3**, 33°, 33i, 337, 338, 351, 361, 489,
5 * 7 , 536

Venice, 147, 164
Vidyarthi, Ganesh Shankar, 269
Villeneuve, 154
Vivekananda, 426

Wafd Party, 605
Weininger, Otto 20
Wellington, 83
Whitehead, Dr. A. N., 411
Whyte, Sir Frederick, 427, 430
Willingdon, Lord, 283, 321, 322, 386
Wolseley, Lord, 541,

Wright Brothers, 18

Ycravda, 228-230, 235, 245, 371, 372, 381,
397

Zeppelin, Count, 25